On Brotherhood
by dreams of infinities
Summary: All for one. One for all. A story about how the musketeers react to the loss of one of their own, and just how far one man will go to save his brothers.
1. keep on walkin'

**A/N:** And here we have another distraction from the stories I really need to update. On the upside, though, I have this one mostly written out, so should be able to update fairly regularly. This one will be about ten chapters long, give or take, and I hope to update weekly. As always, I'm never sure if posting is a good idea, so reviews are a good way forward. Let me know what you're thinking.

Chapter titles are all song lyrics. Guess the song if you're that way inclined. Otherwise, enjoy.

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **1**

 **KEEP ON WALKIN'**

Dodge. Slash. Dodge.

It is all he can think. He is a dancer, a machine, performing a strange, twisted act, killing a man here, turning, fighting. Athos has warned him not to let his instincts take over - as soon as he does, everything he has learned fades away - but in the heat of the moment, only the attacks programmed into his memory are the ones he uses, and even then it is hard for him to focus. He fights two, three men at once, turning like the wheels of a carriage, smooth and regular and deadly.

A sword slices through the air towards him, catching his side, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins stops him from feeling it, and his own blade slams through the bandit's stomach. Again he turns, sword raised and ready, but his friends have finished the rest of them off. They stand in silence, staring at the scene around them.

"Well," Aramis says, breaking through the haze, "that was unexpected."

"Thieves?" Porthos asks.

D'Artagnan kneels beside a still breathing attacker. The man appears to be in considerable pain from a wound in his arm, but it is not life-threatening and, given the opportunity to recover, impermanent. "Did somebody pay you to do this?" he hisses in his ear. "Did someone tell you where we were?"

The man simply gives him an eerie smile, unsheathes a dagger and - before d'Artagnan has time to react - stabs himself through the heart. _Damn._

"What was that?" Athos frowns.

"I don't know, but it doesn't look good."

He fights off the wave off dizziness that washes over him when he stands, putting it down to tiredness after a long day's ride and then a fight. They are in the courtyard of an inn, hoping to catch a breath of fresh air before Porthos drinks himself into the realms beyond all hope of sanity. It seems that the bandits, whoever they are (or were) followed them out, having been sat inside the inn. Which means ...

"They were waiting for us," he says suddenly. "Somebody must have hired them; how else would they have known?"

Aramis nods. "Enclosed space ... this was certainly planned. We should leave. Presumably the innkeeper was aware of their presence - someone would have come to investigate by now."

"It could be some sort of robbery ring, though," Porthos reasons. "I mean, they just sit in there and wait for someone to go into the courtyard ..."

"Men don't die for robbery rings," says Athos.

"Not one this size, anyway."

They all look around: indeed there are only a dozen or so men on the floor around them. Judging from their techniques and ease around swords, they have received training, if only to the minimum level. As musketeers - or cadets, in d'Artagnan's case - the four are highly disciplined and trained, and while an evenly numbered battle would have ended far more quickly, the sheer number of assailants put the group at a considerable disadvantage, skilful or otherwise. Looking around, however, d'Artagnan spots only a black eye on Porthos and the shallow cut on his own side, meaning that they are all relatively unharmed.

"We should move," Aramis points out. "There's a back exit. Let's go."

D'Artagnan begins to move towards the door, hoping fervently that it leads straight towards the stables, where their poor tired horses are waiting - "I know the terrain," Athos tells them, "there is another village with an inn an hour or so east. We can rest there for the night."

He scarcely feels as though he can manage another hours' or so ride; his eyelids are drooping, his muscles drained of energy. This is the eighth full day they have spent riding back to Paris, and at their current rate of travel they hope to reach home by noon tomorrow. At this stage, all of them except, perhaps, Aramis, whose abilities to run on fumes astound even the strongest of soldiers, are half dead on their feet with exhaustion. D'Artagnan's legs are stiff and aching from the ride over such uneven ground, and having grown up on a farm, he is accustomed to hard riding. He can hardly imagine the states of the others. (Each of them walk with the certain stagger that can only come from this sort of exertion.)

Fortunately, the stables are easily within reach once they have stolen out of the crowded inn, and when D'Artagnan's horse gives a soft whicker of protest at its short rest period, he murmurs a few soft words to it and rubs its neck soothingly before gently climbing back on. So short was the time they spent fighting that the stablehands have not yet been able to intact the poor creatures. He rides out at a slow walking pace, legs and back creaking in protest. He is the first: Athos follows and so does Aramis thirty seconds later. Porthos is apparently having difficulties and cannot even coax his horse from the stable.

D'Artagnan finds himself slipping to the side and corrects himself immediately. He can hear his father's reproachful voice ringing inside his head and automatically straightens himself until his posture is flawless - Alexandre taught his son to ride as a nobleman, nothing less. Aramis snorts. "Feeling lordly, d'Artagnan?"

"Stiff back," he replies casually, but does not lower himself back into a slouch. Instead, he remains with his spine as stiff as a board, his shoulders back, and his chin slightly raised in what Alexandre termed as "proudly defiant". In his peripheral vision, he half sees the ghostly form of his late father, but turns his head sharply and sees nothing. His horse shifts at the movement, exposing d'Artagnan's injured side to Aramis.

"You're hurt." Aramis trots over. "Let me see."

"It's nothing. Just a scratch."

He lifts his shirt to prove it, and Athos, satisfied that it is not severe, calls boredly, "Come _on_ , Porthos. Not all of them are dead."

At last a somewhat bedraggled Porthos emerges from the stable block atop his horse and, though Aramis squints at the wound and moves as if to touch it, the other men are riding away and d'Artagnan, beginning to feel the pain after the adrenaline wears off, follows before the medic can try to stick his fingers into it. (Doubtless he would, given half the chance.)

"Do you think it was a targeted attack?" d'Artagnan asks, catching up with his friends.

Athos shrugs. "It could have been. More likely they had no idea who we were until it was too late. We'll soon find out - if they follow us, either they will want vengeance or they will want whatever it is they think we have."

Porthos, shuddering, chimes in, "I hope not. All I'm in the mood for now is a bottle of wine and a nights' sleep."

The night is bitingly cold, especially for mid-November. They are riding through woodland now, and d'Artagnan wishes he had thought to bring an extra layer, for a fine sheen of sweat has worked its way across his brow - from the fight, he assumes - which is nearly frozen from the air surrounding it, and the tear in his doublet where the sword cut through it is doing horrors to his insulation. He makes a mental note to ask Aramis to sew it up tonight: the man has better stitching that any other in Paris, or so it seems.

His eyes at last are too heavy to hold open and he finds himself sliding sleepily off his saddle. He falls bonelessly to the forest floor, which is thankfully thick and soft with a blanket of dead leaves and twigs and unlike the frozen dirt path they are making their way along. Nothing is hurt but his ego.

Porthos and Aramis immediately fall about laughing, Aramis so much so that he just barely manages to hold on himself and almost joins d'Artagnan on the ground. Athos, at least, has the grace to ask if he is alright, but even he bears a poorly concealed smirk. "I suggest you remain on your horse until we actually reach the inn, unless you wish to sleep there for tonight," he commented. There is a slight frown on his face that is not quite placeable.

D'Artagnan stumbles to his feet with all the grace of an elephant and clambers back onto his horse.

* * *

Something is wrong.

Athos can see it in the way the boy lists sideways in the saddle, the way his head keeps snapping to the side as he thinks he sees and hears things that nobody else can. D'Artagnan, perhaps unwittingly, has fallen asleep on horseback on many an occasion and not once have the musketeers ever seen him fall off. Born on a farm, the Gascon clearly is so at home on a horse that he does not notice when he drifts off atop of one - he is the only man within the garrison Athos knows who willingly spends time with the horses (his own in particular) training them and, he claims, gaining their trust. And, despite the continuous taunting he endures, still persists in doing so, long after learning that it is not the done thing. Athos admires that in a man.

But however good d'Artagnan is at standing out from a crowd of people, something is wrong with him today. Perhaps he is distracted - a man did commit suicide at his feet, after all. Yet the boy's stomach is as tough as iron. No, he must be hiding something. A secret, perhaps, one that could be dangerous (it would explain the jumpiness and the pale, glistening skin), or, more likely in d'Artagnan's case, an injury. Aramis had let the cut in his side go without complaint, but it could be bothering him. Perhaps there is something trapped in the wound, or it is slowly becoming infected. It could even be another wound altogether.

The way he staggers as he gets to his feet is not lost to the lieutenant, nor the utter exhaustion on his face. Surely he is made of sturdier stuff than he currently appears? Could it just be the exhaustion of the past few days taking its toll? No. They have ridden further and harder than this many a time. When they reach the inn, Athos will insist that Aramis looks him over, checking for signs of fever or injury.

Athos sighs. The last thing they need is an outbreak of influenza.

"How far?" Aramis asks. They have been riding for approximately ten minutes.

"Far enough."

Porthos groans, raising his head to the heavens; d'Artagnan is, worryingly, completely silent. Upon further inspection he is slumped forward slightly in his saddle. His face is barely visible.

As if on cue, spots of rain hit Athos' face. A yet louder groan can be heard from Porthos behind him. Aramis is laughing. "Remember the last time we were out in weather like this? It was before d'Artagnan. An hour away from Paris in pitch darkness, no shelter, no idea of where we were."

"We circled until daybreak," Porthos says. "I remember because Aramis' horse bucked him off, and he lay for a full five minutes staring at the sunrise."

"You may laugh, but I thought he'd broken his neck." Athos' voice is dry.

They continue in silence a while. The shower of rain turns into a fully fledged downpour, so cold that his whole body aches. He wants nothing more than to find someplace warm and dry to rest.

"Does anyone have any wine?"

"Good _God_ , Porthos," cries Aramis. "Half an hour! Half an hour before we reach an inn! Can you not wait that long?"

"It's not for me. The whelp looks like he's about to faint."

Athos turns. "I'm fine," d'Artagnan hisses.

"Bit cold for you, eh?" Porthos claps him on the back and rides on. D'Artagnan does not reply.

Shivering, they finish the journey in silence. Memories come drifting back as soon as they approach the village - this is one of the first journeys Athos ever made as a newly commissioned musketeer. He was in a large party, a guard for some lord who had insisted on full protection. Little had happened, but one man caught an infection from an unnoticed scratch across the back of his shoulder and fainted from his fever, and slipped sideways into another man's horse, panicking it and throwing both of them and the three behind them to the ground, under the horses of the rest of the group. None of the injuries proved to be fatal, but with almost half of their men incapacitated, accommodation was necessary - and the nearest village was more than adequate.

Athos is fairly sure that the beds are even clean.

"We've arrived," Aramis pipes up unhelpfully from the back. He looks half drowned. (Athos is forced to admit that he probably looks much the same.)

"Thank God."

"Porthos, Aramis, sort out the horses. Myself and d'Artagnan will secure rooms for the night." Athos turns and sends a warning glare at Porthos before he can open his mouth to protest at the sudden role reversal; usually it is d'Artagnan who looks after the group's horses, being the most comfortable around them, as well as the newest of them. Such responsibilities tend to fall to the youngest and least experienced musketeers. _Break 'em in,_ as Porthos once so eloquently put it. However, at this point the boy can scarcely balance atop his mount, let alone find it shelter and protection enough to leave it and three others overnight.

"I can do the horses." D'Artagnan's voice is so slurred it is almost inaudible. Has he, perhaps, consumed an inordinate amount of wine without their knowing? It seems probable, given the way that he directs his words to a non-existent rider to his left, when they are travelling single-file.

"Probably best that you get an early night," Aramis says quietly. All of them have now realised that something is not right.

All of them, it seems, except d'Artagnan himself.

They come to a stop outside the inn (creatively named, Athos notes, la Vieille Auberge) and Athos, Porthos and Aramis dismount. D'Artagnan stays frozen on his horse. Each raindrop threatens to knock him down. "D'Artagnan," Porthos says cautiously. He flinches awake and slowly rises out of his saddle. Athos notes that his hands are shaking too much to even hold himself steady.

He swings his right leg over the horse, ready to step down, but his left buckles under the added weight. This time there is no slow, easy fall, and no soft landing.

He drops like a stone.


	2. falling like ashes

**A/N:** Wow, what a fantastic response to the first chapter! Thank you so much to everyone.

Particular thanks to Aednat the Fourteenth, Tidia, pallysdeeks, Jmp, Debbie, arduna, Cynthia, Aingealsuh, GingietheSnap, chantelscribbler and Blades of Ice1 for taking the time to leave a review. They mean the world to me, and every single on is very much appreciated.

Shall we?

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **2**

 **FALLING LIKE ASHES**

Pain explodes across his body.

It begins at the wound in his side - he no longer thinks it _just a scratch_ \- and radiates up his torso, down his arms, and twists and spirals down his thighs. It hurts to breathe, hurts _not_ to breathe, every movement a pounding wave of agony. His heart threatens to pound out of his chest. All he can do is take in short, shallow gasps of oxygen, practically inhaling the rain as it falls into his mouth, and squeeze his eyes tightly shut against the fire.

He has never felt pain like this. Not when a horse kicked him in the chest when he was a teenager, breaking four ribs, nor when he was seven and stepped on a pitchfork, almost losing his foot. Not when, at five years old, he was so delirious with fever that he wondered from his bed and climbed a tree which could not hold him and sent him plummeting ten feet to lie for four hours with a broken leg while his entire village searched for him. It is so intense that he half wishes for death, but a strange sense of loyalty keeps him seated until they reach the village. He knows that his friends would never forgive themselves if he were to die fighting with them.

None of his friends, he thinks, have noticed anything wrong - at least as far as he can tell. Porthos asked if he needed wine, because he looked cold, but once he said he was fine they left him alone. He is glad. He does not want to be a liability. He does not want to look vulnerable.

D'Artagnan is so lost in thought that he does not notice the others dismount. _You can do this_ , he tells himself shakily, standing up in his saddle. His legs can barely take his weight. _You can do this._ He swings his right leg over but before he can step down his left leg buckles. _You can do this_ flashes through his mind a split second too late, and suddenly everything flips. His head slams into the ground. One foot still hangs, caught in its stirrup. He watches it distractedly, wondering why there is so much water dripping into his face. "Rain," he mumbles. Why does the water fall to the ground but not his foot? He tries to shake it loose but there is not enough energy in him to move. Instead he stares as his horse starts to move of its own accord, dragging him along the ground with it. Why use a wagon, he wonders. This is so much easier...

 _D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan._ Someone is saying his name. For one single, blessed moment, a dark shape obstructs his vision and the water stops hitting his face, before it moves away again and his foot is released. The rest of his body hits the ground with a thump. Still slightly dazed, d'Artagnan blinks hazily as the figure crouches over him - _d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan_ \- and shakes him on the shoulder. He smiles at them to let them know he is alright. He can't quite talk just yet.

And then, quite suddenly, the pain he hadn't even noticed was gone comes back in full force, knocking the breath out of his lungs. His back arches against the ground. A sob forces its way out of his throat.

He vaguely registers that someone big and strong is sliding their arms underneath him and lifting him up, and then running into a blissful, warm existence, where the rain stops but the pain carries on and his ears are ringing so loudly that the only thing he can hear is the sound of his own racing heartbeat.

He blacks out.

When he blinks himself back into awareness, he is on a bed, drenched in his own sweat. Aramis is standing over him. "The blade was poisoned," he tells Athos and Porthos, who notices that d'Artagnan is awake. "I don't know what to do without an antidote."

"How's the pain?" Porthos asks.

D'Artagnan winces. "Been better," he rasps. His throat is dry. Athos hands him a cup filled with water but his hands are shaking too violently to take it from him so the older man puts a hand behind his head, lifts it gently and places the cup on d'Artagnan's lips. Shame and humiliation redden his already burning cheeks. "I'm sorry," he gasps out, and the effort it requires just pours more fire into the raging storm that is his blood.

It hurts. More than anything he's ever known. It hurts.

It hurts.

"Give him something for the pain!" Porthos barks, and Athos is looking into his eyes and asking what he's sorry for - he's done nothing wrong - and Aramis is telling them that he can't give him anything because it might react with the poison and the only thing they can do is give him water and hope to flush it out of his system and then a whole new wave of pain comes.

A scream rings through the air so loudly that d'Artagnan closes his eyes. He can't breathe. He is past the stage of shaking now, convulsing and dizzy and nauseous and writhing and twisting on the bed. His friends are trying to hold him down but every touch is fire and he realises that the scream is his own. He stops screaming but does not stop fighting. Every breath is like a musketball burrowing into his chest, but he can't stop breathing. He _needs_ it, he _needs_ the air.

And then peace. A woman's voice singing - the doctor's wife from Lupiac. A child's crying. Not any child. _Him._ He is sick again, and she nurses him while the doctor and Charles' father discuss the best options for his treatment. It is a slow, lilting melody. He looks up into her face with tired, feverish eyes, and she looks down on him and whispers, _Sleep. You'll feel much better_. And he whimpers softly and she says, _It's going to be fine, Charles,_ and then turns into a duck and flies around the room and he spins round as well and then he is running in his fields again, with his cousins, and they're all laughing and then he falls and rolls and rolls and rolls until he is lying on a bed with Milady de Winter, and she kisses him and stabs a dagger through his heart, but he doesn't die, not yet. He wonders out onto the street and someone screams and everyone is backing away from him and then he sees Constance, beautiful Constance, but she is screaming too and his head feels as though it is underwater and then he realises that he is holding it in his hands. And someone says softly, "Will he make it through the night?"

And Aramis replies, "I don't know. I don't think so."

D'Artagnan draws in a deep breath and opens his eyes. "Where am I?" he asks. He does not mean to say it aloud but he does anyway. Aramis is poking at the wound in his side.

"You're safe," he answers quietly. After a while, he adds, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

Before they can stop him he forces himself up to look at the scratch and gags. It is red and inflamed, with blood and pus and some other black liquid he cannot identify leaking out of it. "Oh." He falls back. "I'm sorry."

It isn't just this he is apologising for. D'Artagnan has become a weakness in the group now, a vulnerability, and exposed flank. He should not have slowed them down but beyond that he should not have been wounded in the first place. He should not have exposed himself to an enemy sword, should have listened and tried to follow Athos's instructions like a true musketeer. _Head over heart_ , every time. If only he were less stubborn. Maybe he could have listened.

"It's okay." Porthos's hand lands on his shoulder. He realises that he has been stammering out his apologies, again and again.

The pain has subsided somewhat, but it isn't gone. Now, he is too weak do anything at all. Athos approaches again with another cup of water and makes him drink it before he can protest. Black spots gather at the edges of his vision. "Am I going to die?" d'Artagnan can't help but ask.

They all look at him for a second and Aramis smiles weakly and says, "Not if I can help it."

It is the first time, to d'Artagnan's knowledge, that his friend has lied to him.

* * *

This, Aramis thinks, will surely be the death of him. Not a battle wound, in a blaze of glory alongside his greatest friends, but alone, of a broken heart, having failed to save all of them. It is his greatest fear, and, seemingly, his destiny, to watch as men and brothers die slowly around him, unable to do anything but watch. Thoughts of Savoy shove to the front of his mind and he forces them back, busying himself with trying to make d'Artagnan drink water. He stubbornly refuses, twisting his face away whenever the cup touches his lips.

The boy twists and turns on the narrow bed, trembling and murmuring to himself. Occasionally he will moan from the pain or call out names: Madame Celice, Espoir, Milady. Constance. And, heartbreakingly, their own. _Athos. Porthos. Aramis._ He is delirious for the most part, but in rare moments or near lucidity, he always asks where he is and tells them that he is sorry. Again and again until he falls asleep again. Sometimes he cries out, jerks madly on the bed. Aramis has no idea what this poison is doing to him but it can't be anything good.

" _Please_ , Aramis," Athos says slowly, watching as d'Artagnan asks repeatedly for his father. "Just tell us if he is going to live or die so that we may prepare ourselves for what is to come."

Aramis understands. Of course he does. The man is losing hope, losing it so rapidly that he needs whatever reassurance he can get. Even the knowledge that the boy will die would be better than the constant vigil at his bedside, uncertain, unknowing. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm so sorry. I don't know. If he survives the night there is every chance that he will; if not ... it - it doesn't seem likely."

Porthos slams his hand into the wall and storms out of the room.

By Aramis's estimations, it is about midnight. He is so tired that he wants to fall asleep there and then, but d'Artagnan needs him. He lifts the boy's shirt again, gingerly. He has cleaned it as best he can but it still oozes blood, pus and black fluid. Perhaps -

Porthos comes back in. "I'm sorry." The feeling is not uncommon. Aramis knows all too well what it is like when the walls begin to suffocate you, stop you from looking anywhere but the dark places in your mind.

"I'm going to try and squeeze out the poison," he announces, his mind made up. He cannot watch another second of this.

Porthos ceases his relentless pacing and stares. "You what?"

"From what I can tell, the most painful part is his side where he was cut, and it's so red and inflamed that I need you to hold him down." He directs Athos to put an arm across the boy's chest and Porthos to hold his legs. "D'Artagnan." He puts his mouth down close to his ear. "We're going to try something." D'Artagnan blinks sleepily. "I won't lie to you. This is going to hurt like hell." There it is: the weak grin he knows so well.

"Can't be worse than your speech to the King after our last mission," the Gascon grins, and Aramis does not reply. It will be far, far worse.

He keeps strips of leather in his medical bag for situations like this, and places one between d'Artagnan's teeth. Then he reaches for the wound, places one hand on either side of it and presses inwards as hard as he can.

A feral, inhuman scream rips its way from d'Artagnan's throat. He bucks so violently that Athos, unprepared for the sheer amount of desperate force, is half thrown back - "Pin him back down!" Aramis yells - and more of the black fluid pours out onto the bedclothes. They're all sweating and swearing and exhausted and he doesn't know how much longer they can hold on. Thankfully, his silent prayers for help are soon answered and the boy slips back into half-consciousness. Athos stumbles away from his limp body, sickened, a hand over his mouth. Porthos's mouth is set in a grim line. He is pale and unsteady on his feet.

Aramis continues until the blood runs clean. Then he splashes a little brandy onto the cut and neatly covers it with a clean dressing. It is not deep enough to warrant stitches, let alone be the cause of this.

"Did it help?" Porthos hisses, desperation creeping into his tone. "Did it do anything?"

"I don't know, yet, Porthos," Aramis repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. "I'm sorry."

As one they drag chairs around the bed. Aramis notes that Athos has grasped one of the younger man's hands between both of his own.

They wait.

Several hours later, the now quietened boy's eyes flutter open again.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?"

This time there is no _Where am I,_ no apologies. His voice is so soft and hoarse that Aramis barely hears. Porthos is asleep. Athos is stirring.

"We don't - "

"But I am."

"D'Artagnan - " Athos tries.

"The farm - the farm goes to my cousin Espoir," he rasps. Porthos, now, awakens too. "I have ... savings. From my father and the farm. And my wages. They - they go to the - the three of you."

"No," Porthos says, shaking his head, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. He stands up.

"Please ... I want you to have them."

"Let us not get ahead of ourselves," Aramis says softly, a tremor in his tone. "There is life in you yet."

"Pray for me," d'Artagnan says, so quiet now that Aramis has to put his ear near the boy's mouth to understand him.

There is a slight burning behind his eyes, a choke ready in his throat, but he refuses to cry. D'Artagnan does not deserve displays of weakness. "We will."

"I'm ready. I just - I - I don't ... want to ... be alone."

Porthos puts a steadying hand on his leg. "We're here. We're not goin' anywhere."

Was it just hours ago that they were laughing together?

"Stay strong, d'Artagnan," say Athos.

And Aramis says, "He will. He's the strongest of us all."

"That he is." Athos nods, and d'Artagnan smiles, a genuine smile that for a moment make Aramis forget everything that is happening and smile too.

And then a gunshot rings outside, and someone shouts, "Come out, musketeers, or we kill everyone in the village!"


	3. standin' on the cliff face

**A/N:** I'm back! The first full week of school has left me so tired that my jaw hurts from yawning so much. Unfortunately, I am no closer to writing the end of the story, but Chapter 8 is halfway done so that gives me a little time. Not that I ever have any free time anyway.

Many thanks to pallysdeeks, Blades of Ice1, arduna, Tidia, Helensg, Debbie, and Issai (x2) for taking the time to leave a review. That are all very much appreciated, and encouraging, because I can never find time to write.

Sorry to leave you all on a cliffhanger again. It seems to be a common theme with my work, though if it's of any consolation, the end of the next chapter is about four times worse. I'm afraid I'll have to leave you all in suspense about d'Artagnan a little longer ...

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **3**

 **STANDIN' ON THE CLIFF FACE**

They're all looking at him. Waiting for him to say something. Give them permission, perhaps. Already he regrets his request that they stay with him. It won't make a difference to him, anyway. He'll be dead by morning, and they're the ones who'll have to watch him die and then live with it.

He says, "Go."

He will not be responsible for the slaughter of a village.

His words are all the encouragement they need, and the three of them leap up, grasping their weapons. "Stay awake until we get back," Aramis tells him. "Don't go anywhere."

D'Artagnan understands that the man is not telling him not to get up and leave; he is telling him not to die.

Athos turns before he goes through the door. "Thank you, d'Artagnan," he says softly, and d'Artagnan has no idea what he's talking about because there's nothing to thank him for, and he wants to tell Athos this but he can't so he just nods weakly and falls back against the pillows, lying in wait of the return of his friends.

They've been good to him. Ever since their unconventional first meeting in the courtyard of the Garrison, when he came in ready for a fight to the death, they have cared for him and protected him, all the while teaching him everything they know.

Athos, who showed him how to remain calm throughout battles, to put his head over his heart, to fight with honour and pride.

Porthos, who showed him how to feel the battle, how to use every ounce of strength he has in him and some of the least honourable fighting techniques d'Artagnan has ever seen.

And Aramis, who showed him love and medicine and stories and even once tried to teach him some Spanish.

Somehow he feels as though he is betraying them by being here, pain rolling through him, gritting his teeth against it. He feels as though he should be fighting with them through the pain and weakness. _One for all_ , that's what they say. D'Artagnan has no doubt that were it any of the others in his situation, they would be out there fighting with him.

La Vieille Auberge has thin timber walls and he can easily hear the sounds of fighting from outside. He has grown to respect the clang of sword on sword, the ringing of his ears after gunshots. It is not as he fantasised as a boy. Real people die and every sound has consequences. Roaming free on the farm with his cousin Espoir, he would imagine it as violent and exciting and glorious, with little regard for the consequences and loss of life such battles would have. Then, when he was fourteen, he saw his first death: a man was trapped under the wheels of his cart. There was nothing anyone could do but listen to his screams.

D'Artagnan changed after that.

His earlier hallucinations bring back painful memories of his father; his mother had died in childbirth and, with no siblings, at times it felt like he and Alexandre were the only ones in the world. The man always treated him lovingly, despite his gruff, stern nature, and to an extent d'Artagnan feels as though without his father's presence, he would be a shallow, cowardly man, unworthy of his recruitment in the musketeers. Unworthy of any of his new life. Some days he wonders if his father would approve of the musketeer he has become.

 _Bang._

A gunshot.

A cry of pain.

Is that -

" _Aramis!_ " comes Porthos's yell.

 _Shit. Shit shit shit._

Before d'Artagnan can fully comprehend what is going on, he is on his feet, ignoring the way the room spins, the way his whole body aches, forcing down the bile that threatens to rise up his throat. He grabs his pistols and nothing else because he isn't strong enough to lift his entire weapons belt, and shrugs on his doublet and boots because if the poison doesn't kill him then the cold certainly will. By sheer force of will alone - his legs are so weak that it is a wonder he is still upright - he staggers out into the fray.

Aramis is on his knees, clutching his shoulder, fighting off another man who clearly has the advantage with his weaker left hand. Without thinking d'Artagnan shoots, and one of his pistols is rendered useless. He charges forwards and slams it into the side of someone's head and they drop to the muddy ground, unconscious or dead. Aramis is saying something to him, _shouting_ it, even, but the blood in d'Artagnan's ears is roaring so loudly that he cannot hear. Fire pulses through him. He wants to scream. Instead, he uses his other shot to kill someone who is about to run Porthos through from behind, uses the spent pistol to knock a rapier out of another man's hand, and engages in such a fierce fistfight with him that he hardly notices when someone grabs him from behind and holds a pistol to the side of his head.

A wave of dizziness tackles him once he stops moving and he suddenly goes so weak that he can no longer support his own weight. He collapses against his captor's chest, groaning.

It is all he can do to stay conscious.

From the way his chest moves, the man with the gun is shouting something.

Everybody stops.

D'Artagnan has a feeling that this is something to do with him but he doesn't quite understand what.

He looks at Athos and sees something in his eyes that he doesn't think he has ever seen there before.

Fear.

Porthos is shouting. At him, perhaps. D'Artagnan stares at him through glazed eyes.

Aramis is still holding his shoulder but he is scrambling to his feet.

 _Why has the man not shot him yet?_

He is going to die anyway, after all.

But he'll go to Hell if it isn't beside his brothers.

And then he has a vague feeling of flying and looks down and realises he is on a horse - a _galloping_ horse -

Someone holds his nose, tilts his head back and pours something bitter into his mouth -

He chokes -

They clamp a hand over his mouth and force him to swallow -

And he is in the forest with a gun at his temple and everything burns.

But not _everything_. In fact, only really his lungs.

It is now that he realises that he has stopped breathing, and he doesn't have the energy to start again.

He stares with dull, vacant eyes at the blurred trees speeding past and watches the black dots which gather at the edge of his vision.

* * *

Porthos is a simple man. Not so much in terms of intelligence - his strategies and plans are as good as they come, though he is not as literate as Athos or Aramis - but when it comes to moral principals. Growing up in the Court, if nothing else, taught him to survive, but it was only when he left it that he realised he had a choice. He didn't have to steal. He could be honest. These factors, as far as he can tell, at least, left him with such a blunt, black-and-white way of telling right from wrong that even the mildest of bad deeds make him want to howl with anger.

Poisoning d'Artagnan is one such deed. Putting a bullet through Aramis's shoulder is another. To do both in one night is, to Porthos, reason enough to _actually_ howl with anger, and he does, running one man through with his rapier and at the same time stabbing his main gauche into another's throat. He is careful not to let their blades touch him. Not after what has happened to d'Artagnan.

He looks up and swears for an instant that he sees the boy sluggishly hit someone on the head, deathly pale and shining with sweat, but it can't be possible. The Gascon couldn't even hold a cup of water, let alone stand. To have him out here fighting would be a bloody miracle. A suicide, admittedly, but an astonishing one all the same.

Tears prick at his eyes threateningly. Why anyone would kill someone like d'Artagnan is utterly beyond him. The boy has been with them a short time but already he feels like family. Porthos can scarcely imagine life without him. He blinks. He cannot allow himself to compromise the battle. The loss of just one man in such a small group could be the difference between life or death for the rest of them. With Aramis on his knees, their numbers have already dropped.

A gunshot. He feels something brush against him and turns quickly, only to be met with the sight of a dead man, sword stretched out towards him. Porthos scans the scene, looking for his saviour, and _there_. It _is_ d'Artagnan. He opens his mouth to bellow at him but instead is forced to engage in a violent duel against a man half his size but so fast most of his movements are a blur. They are evenly matched, he thinks; he has strength and years of skill up his sleeve, and his opponent has speed and agility. His blade whistles through the air. One slash slams into Porthos's belt, cutting through it, bruising his hip and sending his entire arsenal of pistols and daggers crashing to his feet. He laments the loss of his main gauche but there is nothing to do now except bring his blade down in a stroke so powerful that its knocks the other man's sword out of his hands.

Instinct takes over and he goes for the killing stroke, but a shout stops him dead.

" _Stop or I kill the boy!_ "

Porthos freezes in place. A glance at his friends tells him that they are much the same. Someone shifts to the side and through the darkness he can just make out the shape of the boy, slumped against this _scum's_ chest, eyes glassy. For one terrible moment Porthos believes that he is dead, but he shifts slightly against the bastard's tight hold.

He cannot help it. He roars.

He curses the man and his men and their families and their horses and every single deed they have ever done, curses their swords and their guns and everything they own, letting loose a foul stream of obscenities that only one who has grown up inside the Court of Mircales can ever hope to know. He roars at them until the man he was fighting gets past the original shock of it, bends down, collects his rapier and holds it to Porthos's chest.

" _Silence_ ," he hisses. Porthos looks down at the metal, gleaming in the light from the windows of the inn. He looks up just in time to see the group's leader dragging d'Artagnan onto a horse as a child would a rag doll and galloping away with several of his soldiers.

Porthos looks down at the metal again. Then he shoves his own, slightly longer rapier into his assailant's chest.

He spins wildly and sees two other men cut down by Athos and Aramis. It is over. There were only three men left. He moves over to Aramis, dreamlike. His friend is pressing on his shoulder.

"Go," he spits, pulling off his doublet to inspect the wound. "Find him."

"It's too late, Aramis," Athos says gently, removing his own doublet and pressing it to the hole in his friend's shoulder. "They took our horses. I have no idea how, given the state of them. They must have known we would come here, and laid in wait. D'Artagnan - d'Artagnan was - " he bows his head - "he wasn't going to survive until morning."

"He _saved my life,_ Athos! He came out here when he heard I was hit and shot the man who was to finish me off!" Aramis's voice rises with each syllable. "The _least_ we can do is bring home his body."

"He saved all of us," Athos says. Porthos does not think he has ever heard the lieutenant sound quite so broken.

For a time they all sit there, surrounded by dead men, mourning the loss of a brother.

Then Aramis hisses with pain as he shifts slightly and with a jolt Porthos remembers the wound. Gently, he puts the sharpshooter's uninjured arm around his own shoulders and they both stand uneasily, moving back into the inn as one. "At first light we will search," Athos says wearily. They enter the room where d'Artagnan lay for so many hours, looking at the damp sheets, stained with sweat and blood, and Porthos backs out so quickly that Aramis gives a cry of surprise. He slams the door shut.

"I won't sleep in there," he says fiercely.

He barely registers Aramis's quiet instructions, telling him to pour brandy onto the wound, wipe it gently and search for anything caught in it, pull out the tiny piece of fabric from his shirt, pour brandy on it again. Move to the exit wound and repeat the process. Grief and horror and fury run through his veins as surely as the poison that took his friend from him. _Poison._ What if they laced their bullets with it as well as their blades?

"Porthos?"

He jumps slightly. "Yes?"

"Can you stitch?"

Clothes, to an extent. His needlework is messy and irregular at best. He has never had to stitch another man's skin before.

"I - "

"I will guide you. My own hands are shaking too much."

In the dim candlelight, it it hard to even see the thread, but Porthos does as he is instructed, pushing it through the eye of the needle, pushing the needle through the delicate skin ... There is so much blood. It bleeds only slowly, a steady trickle, and Aramis has informed him that he is not concerned by it, but the hot, sticky feeling of the deep red liquid is sickening when paired with the thought that it keeps his comrade - his _brother_ \- alive. He finishes the job quickly and untidily, cleaning the shoulder for the final time, putting clean dressings onto it and bandaging the whole thing.

"What now?" he asks.

"Now, we sleep. And in the morning, we search."

Porthos wants nothing more than to go now, but exhaustion has taken its toll on him and even in a half-conscious state he understands that there is no way d'Artagnan can be alive, that his body will wait until dawn, and that the three of them are so beyond alertness that they too will most likely die if they continue to stay awake.

He barely understands anything any more. Shattered beyond repair, he simply lies down on the floor and sleeps.


	4. and you tell me to hold on

**A/N:** Happy Friday night, everyone! Have a slightly less happy chapter to remind you all that Mondays still exist (as do the frankly terrifying pieces of homework I have due, and the zero time I have to do them). The response to this story so far has been fantastic, so thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read.

Particular thanks to pallysdeeks, Deana, Issai, arduna, Jmp, Debbie, Chris, ficklescribbler and Aingealsuh, all of whom took the time to leave a review.

Note that not much is at it seems, and the ending to this chapter might not mean what you think it does ...

(Please don't hate me for the brutal cliffhanger.)

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **4**

 **AND YOU TELL ME TO HOLD ON**

"Aramis. _Aramis._ " The sharpshooter snaps back to attention.

"Yes?"

Athos sighs heavily. "Time to rest."

They have been searching for the best part of the day, and it is by now halfway through the afternoon. They have not eaten. They have not even stopped. These borrowed horses were bred for farming, not the long, continuous rides they have been subjected to today. There has been no sign of d'Artagnan. No body. But nothing to suggest that he is alive, either. Athos is not even entirely convinced that they are pursuing his captors; for all they know, they could be wandering in completely the wrong direction, and they would never know.

The way Athos sees it, there are two possibilities: the first, that d'Artagnan is dead and the men who have his body will use it so send a message to the King, or act on some other nonsensical notion that it will make him notice them, and the second, that they deliberately poisoned him and have given him the antidote, for reasons that Athos cannot (and does not wish to) comprehend. The latter option seems far more likely to him, as what purpose anyone would hope to achieve with the dead body of one musketeer is utterly beyond him, particularly since his friends have not found it.

He draws to a halt beside a tiny stream so that the horses can drink and dismounts in one fluid motion which belies his weariness. He is sick of this. Sick of not knowing what has happened to his friend, sick of not knowing whether they are chasing nothing, sick of not eating or sleeping properly.

"Athos, if you are stopping because of me - "

"Aramis, I am deeply concerned about your shoulder, believe me - do not think I did not see you taking double the quantities of pain draught you normally give us - but, entirely coincidentally, Porthos and I also are in dire need of food, water and rest. We will stop for an hour."

Aramis groaned, frustrated. "D'Artagnan may not have an hour."

"And you certainly won't if you do not rest."

It hurts him deeply. It hurts him more than anyone can know to be the one who tells them to stop, when God knows if he were on his own he would run himself into the ground trying to find any one of them, working until he collapsed and then standing up and searching again. But Aramis, whether he knows it or not, has been in a trance for most of the journey (likely from the amount of medication he has consumed in order to make himself useful) and Porthos's stomach has been rumbling so loudly with hunger that at one point Athos wondered if it was in fact thunder. But he will save his friends' innocence. He will give them somebody to struggle against so they do not have to tear themselves apart.

Though it turns his stomach to do so, Athos uses his superior rank to order them to rest. He will not lose more men. He _cannot_ lose more men.

 _It is what d'Artagnan would have wanted._ His fists clench at the thought, but it is true. The Gascon would not want to see his friends like this. Athos has to honour him and his life, even when nobody else can bring themselves to believe that he is dead.

The three of them crouch beside the stream and drink in silence. Aramis sits back, removes his doublet and inspects the dressings on his shoulder through his torn, bloodied shirt. Normally he would be making some witty remark about how he really ought to make a habit of bringing with him extra clothing for missions such as this, but today he just says, "Your stitches held, Porthos. Well done."

Surprise is evident from his tone; Athos noticed the way he winced at the irregularity and untidiness of them as Porthos worked on him. Such winces did not come from pain, as Porthos perhaps assumed, but dissatisfaction. Nonetheless, he did a better job of it than Athos could ever hope to do. Years of heavy drinking have left his hands unsteady. There is a reason, however, why Aramis is the medic of the group, and it isn't just because he is the best equipped. The man has spent a lifetime losing friends, unable to save them. It is clear that medicine is his escape from it, despite the pain and distress it brought with it.

Porthos's reply would in any other circumstances be mock accusatory. Now he just nods.

Of all of them, it is Porthos who takes things like this the hardest. He has the biggest heart of all the musketeers, and of that Athos is certain. Every loss is ten times worse for him, when it strikes close to home. He is not romantic, like Aramis, or detached, like Athos himself, and he steels himself against the horrors of the wider world (though that is not to say he does not care about them) but each musketeer wounded or killed hurts him as only the loss of a brother by blood ever could.

And d'Artagnan. Just a boy, barely into his twenties, and yet so hardened. The loss of his father showed him grief beyond anything such a young man should feel, and joining the musketeers ... was it all a terrible mistake? Should they have turned him away after he found justice for his father? He could have returned to Gascony, lived the peaceful life of a farmer that he so deserved. But no. Instead they disregarded every moral code they claim to hold so dear and recruited the boy into a regiment where he would - and, dare he think it, probably _has_ \- come to an untimely death.

"Porthos, there is food in my saddlebag. Split it between the two of you. I am not hungry."

"You're lying." His friends know him too well; know that regardless of whether or not he needs it, in times of intense duress such as this he cannot bring himself to put anything into his stomach.

"I ate as we rode," he says smoothly.

Apparently satisfied (or, in fact, knowing that there is nothing he can do or say), Porthos dutifully collects the bread and dried meat from the horse and gives Aramis half. The larger half, despite his evident hunger. Aramis, however, only manages two thirds; the rest he passes back to his friend. He has taken on a somewhat yellowish pallor, and Athos knows there is something he is hiding. In three purposeful strides he has crossed the gap between them, checking his forehead for fever and then, finding nothing, his shoulder itself for blood and inflammation.

"It isn't infection, Athos," he says. "It's the pain. I can't risk any more pain draught if I am to stay awake. The riding ..."

"Then we strap it," says Athos easily. The task is by no means a difficult one.

Aramis, however, has other ideas. "It is my _sword arm_ ," he says through gritted teeth. "I cannot - "

"Have we not practised repeatedly fighting with our weaker hands?"

"It will put me off balance. At a disadvantage."

"You will still be a far superior fighter."

"How am I meant to _avenge_ him, Athos?" he cries, voice rising. "He was taken saving _us_! We have to find justice for him, whether he is dead or alive! How am I supposed to do that with one arm tied to my chest?"

Athos keeps his voice even. It will not do to have him lose his temper, not with such high stakes. "We _will_ get justice for him. If his is by some force of God still alive, we will bring him back to life, and if he is - if he is dead, then we will bring him back to Paris ourselves and give him a warrior's funeral. The one he deserves."

His words are met with resounding silence.

* * *

Aramis reluctantly allows them to brace his shoulder, strapping his forearm to his chest. He knows that, from the levels of pain and location of the hit, the bullet only caused damage to his flesh. Blood loss is not an issue, and he is reassured by the fact that he can move his arm through the pain. However, too much movement can all too easily tear muscles and further injure him, and the constant jostling and jarring from riding a horse all day (albeit slowly) has not improved matters. Were it anyone else, he would prescribe bed rest for at least a couple of days, given their uncanny abilities to get into trouble, but he trusts himself not to cause any further harm, and d'Artagnan is the one in mortal danger.

If he is alive at all.

None of them have any idea what use anyone could have with a dead man. Perhaps they have an antidote. But what would they do with him then? Torture him? How would they even know if the boy knew anything worth torturing him for? Do they even know he isn't a fully commissioned musketeer? Surely they do, if his lack of pauldron is anything to go by. There are too many questions and no answers. Aramis hates being kept in the dark.

"Aramis, d'you think ... " Porthos trails off.

He stays where he is and considers the question. On the one hand, d'Artagnan's ability to stand up and fight could show a remarkable step towards his recovery. On the other, the effort of it nearly killed him. Aramis thinks back to his last glimpse of the boy, propped up against someone as they galloped into the trees. From that distance and on the moving horse, it was impossible to see the rise and fall of his chest, but he was as limp as a rag and his eyes so glazed and unseeing that it is entirely possible he was already dead. "I think," says Aramis carefully, "that he shouldn't have been able to even sit up, the state that he was in, but he did, likely through force of will alone. And the exertion of that - once the adrenaline wore off - certainly should have killed him. The look of him, when they rode away ... he didn't look alive. Maybe they had an antidote. I don't know. But from what I know of poisons, there comes a point where even antidotes can't save people."

"It was honourable, though," whispers Porthos. "What he did."

Aramis nods in agreement. "Yes. However he managed it, it was."

"How often did we complain about his stubborn streak?" Porthos gives a dry, humourless laugh.

"Too often." Athos's voice is grave. "We teased him about what it would take to earn a commission. He deserves one more than most of the men in the regiment."

"We will appeal the King. Try to get him one posthumously."

Both of them look shaken. He guesses that they did not think of the fact that an antidote would not work this long after a poison's administration. Within the hour, their horses are ready to go and they resume their search.

They reach an abandoned monastery. Thinking it as good a point as any to turn back, they return to the inn to sleep. The next day they try a different route.

Time passes.

On the sixth day of searching, a musketeer search party of five men discovers them. It appears that they took too long in returning from their mission, and Treville became concerned. He sent a party of good men, and they assist with the hopeless task for a further two days.

On the second of these days, one of the musketeers - Morel is his name - puts a hand on Athos's shoulder. "I think," he says gently, to the whole group, "that perhaps it is time to let go."

"No," says Athos.

Morel breathes out slowly. "D'Artagnan would not want - "

" _Do not_ speak of what he would or would not want," Athos spits, recoiling from his touch in disgust.

"Forgive me."

"You have no idea. None at all."

As Athos unleashes his anger on the poor man, he does not retaliate. Being of lesser rank, he can do nothing but stand and take the lieutenant's insults. Aramis feels for him, but does not intervene. He has seen the way his friend's hands shake, how he has eaten only the bare minimum to keep himself alive, how he drinks so deeply every night that even getting him in his side each morning so that he does not vomit in his bed is a tremendous difficulty. Porthos treats everything with more violence than ever before, and Aramis finds himself barely speaking, weighed down by the sheer horror of the circumstances.

Desperation is visible in all of their eyes. They will not return to Paris without d'Artagnan, dead or alive. Tomorrow morning, if nothing has yet been found, one man (Aramis suspects that it will be Morel, after this) will ride back to the garrison and inform Treville of their situation. It is clear that the other men, despite their affection for the boy, are unwilling to spend a long period of time looking for his body, which may well already have been disposed of.

Dear God, it is a terrible burden on all of their souls.

Athos concludes his severe reprimand and, silently, they again take to the trail. This time, though, something is different.

The birds do not sing.

His hand tightens around his pistol, but no ambush comes.

Instead, there on the ground, clearly placed in wait, is a hideously tortured dead body, its face unidentifiable, its entirety covered in blood and dark, livid bruises. Broken bones stick out at odd angles across it. Its fingernails are gone. It is recognisable only by its doublet and dark hair. One of Morel's younger men half falls from his horse and lurches into the undergrowth to empty the contents of his stomach. Several turn away, hands over mouths, faces white with shock, eyes closed. Aramis does not blame them. It is a sickening sight. He stares, transfixed, unable to turn avert his eyes, move closer, do anything that might be considered useful. He sways alarmingly in his saddle.

In a daze he watches Athos too stumble from his horse and drop to his knees at the body's side, reaching for a pulse at its mutilated neck, shaking his head slowly, bowing his head not perhaps from respect but from anguish and a strong desire to never lay eyes on such a monstrosity again. Porthos gives a short cry of rage and grief.

Aramis remains frozen.

It is undoubtedly d'Artagnan.


	5. just to stay in the game

**A/N:** As a reward for waiting so patiently (almost) I bring with this chapter some fantastic news of our favourite Gascon's survival, and a chapter entirely from his point of view. It's laid out a little differently to other chapters, and comes in cribs and drabs, but hopefully you'll get the general idea.

What a great response to the last chapter! My inbox has been blowing up all week. Particular thanks to elbcw, theredwagon, arduna, Deana, Blades of Ice1, Debbie, Jmp, Aingealsuh, Helensg, Foxy005, WelshEssex, Tidia, FierGascon (x4) and criminally charmed, each of whom took the time to leave a review.

Without further ado, here is d'Artagnan ...

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **5**

 **JUST TO STAY IN THE GAME**

Blink. Blink.

He does not recall opening his eyes, but he is blinking, so he must have done it at some point.

Blink. Blink.

There it is again.

Blink. Blink.

Bright light shines in his eyes. _Sunlight._

Blink.

He is so surprised that he only blinks once this time that he jolts. The sudden movement gives him a brief moment of clarity, a glimpse of big windows and white bedsheets and other beds. Then -

Blink ... blink.

Somebody bustles over to his bed. "This one's awake," she calls. She looks into his eyes intently. "Can you hear me?"

Blink. Blink.

She starts doing something to his wrists. He wants to look and see what, but he feels as though he is floating and floating, apparently, is a form of paralysis, because nothing works. "More of the sleeping draught," she says, gesturing to someone out of his line of vision, holding his nose, and tilting back his head so that she can pour something bitter down his throat. He tries to remember when he has had it before. He coughs weakly but feels as though he might be able to move now. Lifting his arm, he notes that it cannot move more than a few inches.

Blink. Blink.

She has tied him down.

Blink. Blink.

"Sleep now," she says firmly, but he doesn't want to. He starts thrashing as violently as he can but she grabs his nose again, forcing him to open his mouth in order to breathe, and then pours something else into his mouth. He tries to spit it out. She has a hand clamped over his mouth. " _Swallow it,_ " she says angrily. He cannot breathe. His thrashing weakens.

Someone slams a hand into his stomach and in the confusion the mixture slips down. He wants to curse but cannot. The hands are removed from his mouth and nose, allowing him to draw in breathe.

Blink. Darkness.

* * *

D'Artagnan returns to his senses in a prison cell.

He does not know how much time has passed, but feels like it must have been weeks at the very least. His mouth is dry, his lips sore and cracked. His arms are suspended above his head with shackles, but he is sat awkwardly just above the ground, legs tangled underneath him. The pain which has so plagued him for as long as he seems to be be able to remember is gone, leaving only a dull ache in its wake.

He groans.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis, wherever they may be, probably believe him dead; he will as likely as not die here, alone, unless he can find a way to escape, in which case he will be utterly lost with no way of knowing where he is. D'Artagnan looks around the dimly lit cell, noting the lack of windows, the steady drip of moisture from the ceiling, and the stone walls and floor. He is underground.

"You're alive, then."

He flinches. The voice is young and soft and quite possibly filled with relief, he thinks. Looking up, he sees a boy - seventeen or eighteen, perhaps - and another figure slouched in the shadows in the corner.

"Where am I?"

A laugh. "God knows."

D'Artagnan tries again. "Do you - do you know what happened to me?"

"Were you poisoned?"

He nods, closing his eyes against the flood of painful memories, and realises that he is icy cold. This cellar or prison or whatever it is seems to have little insulation against the elements.

"I heard that it's what they do. Happened to me, certainly." The boy draws in a breath. "They poison you and then, when you're weakest, they attack again. Your friends, or men, who weren't poisoned too, are preoccupied with fighting the rest of them, they take you, and your friends think you're dead because nobody can survive that. Then they give you the antidote - _disgusting_ , I can still taste it and I've been here _weeks_ \- and torture you until you give them what they want."

"And what's that?" D'Artagnan fights to keep his voice steady.

The boy shrugs. "Information, I suppose. I don't know why."

"They tortured you?"

"Not ... exactly."

The boy bows his head and d'Artagnan feels inexplicably guilty. Those words sound full of pain and regret, far too much so for a child. How did he become involved with all this? What could a boy possibly know that would have any sort of value to a group of bandits?

"My friend," he says, gesturing to the corner as well as he could with his shackles (painfully d'Artagnan notes that _he_ is not forced to dangle with his arms above his head). "His name is - _was_ \- Lucien."

D'Artagnan looks and for the first time realises that the figure in the corner is a dead body. Evidently Lucien was tortured to death, because he is horribly disfigured, and what is left of his face is hardly recognisable as one. "I'm so sorry," he breathes.

"Me too. I told them everything I knew and they still killed him."

They sit in silence. There is nothing d'Artagnan can think of to say which could help. Instead, he enquiries as to the bou's name.

"Charles Caillat."

He laughs a little. "I'm Charles d'Artagnan. Call me d'Artagnan."

"Call me Charles." For a moment, Charles's lips twitch upwards slightly, but then he looks at Lucien again and sighs. "I don't understand why they haven't killed me yet. They have no further use for me, after all."

"Perhaps they'll let you go."

"They tortured a fifteen year-old boy. I doubt it."

D'Artagnan shifts, attempting to find comfort; his arms are numb from lack of blood flow and hold him just high enough off the ground that he cannot sit with his legs out straight. When he tries to stretch them out, his cramped shoulders take all of his weight and he swings slightly. He wants to stand but finds himself too weak, presumably as an aftereffecr of the poison. Queasiness still hits him after sudden movements. His mouth is dry and he is thirsty, but worries that he would not be able to stomach a drink.

It is of little consequence. There is nothing to drink.

Without warning, the heavy wooden door swings open and knocks Charles sideways. He is smaller than d'Artagnan and falls, kept just off the damp ground by the restraints on his wrists, which are red and scarred. How long has he been imprisoned?

The men who step into the cell smirk and then stride purposefully over to d'Artagnan. He watches them, unwilling to back away lest they label him a coward. They seize him under his arms and drag him upwards, one of them removing his restraints. His arms fall limp and useless to his sides but he begins to fight regardless, struggling against them in a desperate effort to escape. Before he can fully register what he is doing, d'Artagnan is forced back against the wall, blow upon blow landing on his ribs and stomach. Weakened, he doubles over and falls to his knees, and then rough hands pull at his doublet, ignoring his feeble resistance, and his boots which flail and kick, but not hard enough, and then force his hands back into the shackles. They do not hook them back up, and he lies curled into a foetal position, pathetic and trying to catch his breath.

A minute or so later, the door shuts with a bang.

"Are you all right?" Charles asks tentatively.

"Fine," he grunts, humiliated. Lucien's body is gone, as are d'Artagnan's doublet and boots. There is a tray with some bread and two cups of water on it.

D'Artagnan takes one of the cups and drinks. It is the sweetest and most refreshing water he has ever consumed, and it slips past his parched lips in four greedy gulps. Remembering, for a moment, his honour, he uses his feet to push the tray over to Charles, who looks at it on surprise. "You don't want your food?"

"I wouldn't be able to keep it down," he says, though that is not the main reason. Charles looked haunted and not a little starved.

When he eats, he does it as though he has not been fed in weeks. (He has to admit that here, this is entirely plausible.)

Neither of them mention the events of a few minutes ago, but when Charles is finished they both throw the contents of the tray to the furthest corner of the room so that the guards will have to walk further to get to them. It is a silent act of defiance and d'Artagnan knows that it will not be his last, though when another kick lands across his badly bruised ribs, he begins to regret it and when the lift him back up into his earlier position his shoulders scream and he regrets it further.

He still does not know why he is here.

* * *

Time crawls by. Charles informs him that meals or served twice a day, and that is their sole judgement of time passing: by these approximations, two days pass in an endless, meaningless boredom. Both sleep sporadically. Much time passes in a sort of daze. D'Artagnan struggles to breathe with his painfully bruised ribs and stressed, swollen shoulder joints. His wrists are raw, bleeding occasionally, chafing against the metal holding them in place. Despite the moisture in the air, he is almost permanently thirsty, but does not eat until their fourth meal, when Charles tells him that he is, frankly, his only escape route and will be good to neither of them if he is dead of starvation. Reluctantly he allows himself one fifth of the portion, claiming that any more will make him ill. He is determined to protect the boy for as long as he can.

Exhaustion and cold seeps into their bones. It does not matter how much they sleep. It is difficult, in such places, to find happiness; d'Artagnan, with no food, warmth, comfort or entertainment finds himself sinking into a depression. There is no escape route. There is nothing beyond that door. He cannot break his chains and chained he is useless. Athos, Aramis and Porthos are not coming.

When they are expecting breakfast on the third day, having shared and analysed each others' entire lives, the door opens and not the familiar guards but a new man comes in. The regality of his manner betray his noble descent - his clothes are similar to the ones that soldier would wear. His tone is clipped and polished.

He crouches in front of d'Artagnan. "You are the musketeer, yes?"

With as much energy as he can muster, d'Artagnan forces himself to look into the man's eyes.

"You forget that my men have heard you speak. They stand guard just outside your door."

He curses inwardly. From the stilted conversation he has heard through the thick door, he assumed that they patrolled the entire structure (Charles believes it to be fairly large) and paused outside this door on occasion. Fortunately, he was unable to make out what they were saying, but instructs himself to censor his words from now on.

"Then they will know that I refuse to tell you anything." His chin drops back down onto his chest.

The man laughs. Then he leans forward and takes d'Artagnan's chin in his hand, forcing it upwards so that they are again making eye contact. "It is not my intention to hurt you, musketeer. I feel that we are very much alike. However, I must make ends meet, and to do so I require knowledge of the garrison. You will tell me all I need to know, and then - " he turns to look at Charles - "perhaps I will not kill the boy."

With that he stands and leaves, the audible _click_ of the door's lock echoing through the resounding silence.

* * *

Charles, to his credit, is not overly fearful. He confesses that he wishes for an end somewhat, and cannot see any other way. "I am a coward," he says, through a mouthful of stale bread. "It's in my nature. I surrendered to them, hoping that they would take my money and go; I allowed them to kill my friend; I won't escape from here. I don't deserve to live anyway, so I might as well die a fairly honourable death."

D'Artagnan cannot help but feel a little dispirited by the boy's change in opinion: before, he was overly optimistic and fully believed that a musketeer was perfectly capable of getting him out. The most frustrating thing about his captivity is the fact that he should so easily be able to escape. Were he Athos, he would likely have escaped when he woke briefly in the infirmary, and Porthos's extensive knowledge of lock mechanisms would have him out in a flash. Aramis is lucky enough to escape any place by the skin of his teeth. And yet as none of them he remains, barely able now to move when he is briefly released from his position, fingers no longer responsive, ribs healing far too slowly thanks to the cold and lack of nutrition.

"You're just a child," he tells him softly.

"Barely."

"It is natural to be afraid - "

"It is not fear, it is cowardice. Courage would be overcoming that fear, instead of allowing - "

"Lucien's death was not your fault - "

" _It was to me!_ I let him down. I promised his father I would protect him."

D'Artagnan swallows. "I am responsible for my father's death. It pains me every day but I will not let the guilt consume me. It takes away your humanity."

The boy stays stubbornly silent. All that can be heard is the steady drip of water in one corner of the cell.

* * *

"Tell me how many there are in the garrison. I will give you a proper meal. Hot broth. None of the old bread you are given - something warm, maybe a blanket with it for your troubles. For the child too."

It is the seventh time he has visited. The fourth time, he pressed firmly on d'Artagnan's ribs. The pain was unexpected and brutal, but he grunted and held his ground. The fifth, he slapped him in the face and told him that Charles would be killed tomorrow threats appear to have been empty, and now the man has resorted to bribery. For whatever reason, he does not seem to have the stomach to have him tortured. Charles sends him a pleading look.

"One hundred," he lies smoothly, hoping to deter Fouquet (as is apparently his name). In reality there are just over three dozen, highly trained and disciplined as they are. Perhaps he can scare them off with exaggerations.

Fouquet smiles. "And how much weaponry does one single soldier have? Where do they sleep? What - "

"You said you would bring us food."

"All in good time."

"I won't wait any longer. I told you - "

"I need the answers first."

D'Artagnan lashes out sluggishly with his foot, catching Fouquet in the stomach. He falls back, wheezing, but regains his balance, darting out of reach. "You little bastard," Fouquet spits. It is overwhelmingly clear that he wants to throttle d'Artagnan where he sits but with a strange kind of restraint he holds back, instead calling his guards and instructing them to remove Charles from the cell. D'Artagnan, with strength he didn't know he had, drags himself to his feet, shoulders twisting painfully, blind with fury, but can merely pull at the heavy chains, watching as the guards seize his young friend and force him from the room.

"You'll pay for this!" It is an ineffective yell of rage that is ignored by all of them except Fouquet, who spins on his heels to send a smug look of satisfaction back his way before slamming the door shut behind him.


	6. singing death or glory

**A/N:** I'm back! I barely remembered tonight, if I'm being honest. I'm running pretty far behind with writing new chapters at the moment - Ch9 is about one quarter done, but this story is turning out to be a fair bit longer than the ten chapters I had planned (particularly since when I first started planning, it was meant to be a three-shot), and I have I think six sizeable pieces of homework due next week, plus a piano exam fast approaching, as well as sporting commitments which take up my weekends and most of my evenings as well. That said, we still have a few weeks where I will update each Friday night, as planned. Enjoy it while you can, I guess.

On a brighter note, thanks to my ever-lovely reviewers for the comments on the last chapter: pallysdeeks, FierGascon, elbcw, theredwagon, Debbie, arduna (x2), Blades of Ice1, and Tidia.

Without further ado ~

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **6**

 **SINGING DEATH OR GLORY**

Constance tears through the crowds, ignoring the scowls and shouts coming from those she knocks out of the way. Her hair and skirts fly out behind her. She can only wonder what her husband must be thinking now, watching her open a short note delivered by a stable boy and then fly from their home and onto the streets. This will not be good for their public image, but she cannot force herself to care. His name rings through her head. _D'Artagnan d'Artagnan d'Artagnan._ It pulses in time with the frantic pounding of her heart, with her frenzied breaths which come out in short, ragged gasps and burn her chest and lungs. She is unaccustomed to strenuous physical activity, and knows that she cannot sustain this pace for much longer.

There. The garrison. Constance runs straight in and as she does so catches sight of Athos, Porthos and Aramis, huddled together against the frost air. _D'Artagnan d'Artagnan d'Artagnan._ They look up as she hurtles towards them. "D'Artagnan," she pants, and the name feels so familiar on her tongue, on her lips, and yet suddenly has an entirely new meaning. Before it was spoken fondly, with a slight smile, but now it merely brings with it pain and grief and loss.

All three of them bow their heads silently. She can see the anguish on their faces, the equal shame and sorrow. It is evident that they are exhausted and hungry but none of them make any move to remedy this. " _Madame_ , we are so sorry," Aramis says.

She is shaking her head. "No. _No._ He isn't - he can't - "

"We saw the body ourselves, Constance," Athos interjects, placing a gentle hand on her arm. His touch burns. Her arm is reaching up, ready to slap him, but he is wise to her quick hand and blocks her hit with a kind of effortless grace she has never seen before, grasping her wrist and holding it tightly. Moving to use her left hand instead, she finds him also holding that one, and is powerless to break free of him, however much she struggles. "Please," he says. "Don't make this any more difficult."

"I want to see him."

"You don't." Porthos's voice is steady but the raw emotion in his eyes makes her want to recoil.

"I do - "

Aramis cuts in, "You wouldn't recognise him, Constance; you'll only make it seem worse. He's not - he's not who he was. We couldn't even make out his face."

"Oh, God," Constance breathes, crossing herself. "T-tell me what happened. Please."

"He died honourably. I will say nothing further."

" _Please_."

A sigh. She can no longer seem to recognise their voices, not against the whispering, rushing noise that fills her ears. She senses that the blood has drained from her head, that the courtyard is spinning slightly. "He was poisoned. His condition grew worse through the night ... we thought for sure that he would not make it. The group who attacked us came for us at the inn where we stayed. He came out to try to help us - Lord knows how - and - and they - they took him. We searched for days. When we found him, it was clear that he had been ... "

The voice has trailed off. "Tortured?" she asks.

"Yes."

A breath in. One out. The lightheadedness reaches its peak and her legs give way underneath her, tipping her forward into Athos, who quickly adjusts his grip on her arms and catches her so that she remains upright. D'Artagnan is dead. D'Artagnan who gave her hope and loved her and gave her something to carry on for, to work through their financial problems and struggling relationship and find hope. She cannot get a twisted picture of him out of her mind, imagining his destroyed body, imagining his pain as he suffered alone.

Was he cold when he died? Hungry? Did he think of her before it happened? Was it fast? _Of course not._ Of course it was the slowest, most agonising death imaginable. Is this God's punishment for the adultery she has committed? Is it a sin when before, she could barely bring herself to look at her own husband?

"Constance, I need you to focus on your breathing."

She can't. She can't stop thinking of him sat in a darkened cell as some sick, murderous bastard destroyed him piece by piece. She can't stop thinking of how his screams must have sounded, how cold he must have been. It is so cold. It could have been the cold that killed him. It wasn't. It was the torturer. But he must have been cold while -

"Constance, I'm going to put your hand on my chest so you can feel my breathing. Try and do it with me." Light touches, lifting her quivering hand to rest on a warm, solid mass which rises and falls slowly. "Can you do that?"

 _D'Artagnan d'Artagnan d'Artagnan._

"It is just the shock of it. You will be fine in just one moment. Feel my breaths. In. Out. There you are."

In. Out. In. Out.

She looks at the musketeer through eyes blurred with tears, her cheeks damp and hair unkempt. She is shivering wildly and supported by Athos, who is slowly leading her to a seat. Her hand is still on Aramis's chest, and Porthos appears to have removed his jacket and placed it across her shoulders. "My humblest apologies, _madame_. I need not mean to shock you so." Aramis's voice is filled with remorse.

"I needed to know," she sobs. "He would have wanted me to know."

"He loved you, you know."

"I know," she says, and it's true. She does know. And then her husband is rushing in, calling her name, hurrying over, asking what has happened, and she feels such a strong sense of revulsion at his touch that she flinches away. D'Artagnan didn't want her to be with him. She is sure of it.

"It's the shock, _monsieur_. She will be fine. I would suggest that she remain in bed for the rest of the day, and perhaps have a little brandy. I find it always helps to steady my nerves."

Irritation flares up inside her. She tries to struggle against Jacques but he will not let go and she's shivering too much to fight for long. He pulls her into him. She wants to tell them to stop talking as though she isn't there, but cannot speak, instead weeping openly onto her husband's shoulder until she has no tears left to weep.

* * *

The hunger pains, before manageable, have now escalated to agonising cramps which have him doubled over in pain. He cannot tell whether the food has stopped coming or whether time has stretched itself out in his starvation. D'Artagnan assumes that Fouquet is trying to make him desperate and, truth be told, it is working. It would appear that this is the only thing his captor is willing to do to him to make him talk - but Charles confirmed that it was Fouquet who tortured Lucien to death. Why has d'Artagnan not received the same treatment?

"Good _morning_ ," smirks one of the larger guards, striding into the cell and unhooking d'Artagnan's chains from the wall with some vigour. "Lovely day, isn't it? Not that you'd know." As d'Artagnan flops to the ground, he kicks him roughly onto his back and starts releasing his ankles.

"What - "

" _Quiet_." A foot lands on his stomach. He tries to curl around it but is already being hauled to his feet, arms still tied behind him, and taken from the room. Lack of use has left his legs aching and altogether worthless, and the guard is taking the brunt of his weight. "We're going to see your friend," the guard hisses in d'Artagnan's ear. "Are you going to talk? Because I'd really like to kill some musketeers."

D'Artagnan shudders and tries to pull away. Overbalancing, he falls and instead of stopping, the guard simply continues, whistling and dragging him along behind him like an oversized child and his toy. "Nearly there now," he sings, shoving d'Artagnan into a wall to make room for another guard to pass them in the narrow corridor. After the guard has gone he starts up a steep flight of stairs and opens the first door they come to, pushing d'Artagnan inside and slamming it shut.

He looks around. It is well lit with a large window and for a moment he struggles to see, but as his eyes grow accustomed to daylight again he sees an unconscious Charles on a chair, partially lying across a rounded table, with Fouquet sat across from him examining a map with a goblet of wine. For a moment the surreality of the image before him is overwhelming. He recovers slowly. "Let him go. He has no part in this."

Fouquet stands, and comes over to d'Artagnan. "There is no need for these restraints, I think," he says, unlocking the shackles that bind d'Artagnan's wrists together. "You can barely stand, let alone fight. Sit down." He gestures to a chair and, reluctantly accepting his inability to stay upright for much longer, d'Artagnan sinks into it. His exhausted arms hang uselessly at his sides.

"Why are you so desperate to get this information that you would kill an innocent, and yet not torture me?"

"It is my place to ask the questions."

"You had no qualms about torturing a fourteen year old boy to death."

"Dear boy, it is _not that simple_." Fouquet clears his throat. "I knew your father, d'Artagnan. I knew Alexandre."

Silence. A gaping chasm opens up beneath his feet and threatens to swallow him whole.

"I knew you, too," Fouquet continues, without letting him process this information. "You would not remember; you were ten, maybe eleven. I came to stay on your farm once. We got on well. You challenged me to a sword fight. You won. You understand, I could not harm Alexandre's child, not ever. He saved my life. I owe him. And so this boy ... this boy will have to act as surrogate."

"My father is dead," says d'Artagnan harshly, reeling inside from the revelation but keeping his exterior unaffected. "Whatever you do, however you force me to talk, he is dead and you are _dishonouring_ him by keeping me here."

"It was never about you," Fouquet says. "I need the musketeers dead. If you tell me enough about them, I can let you live. You are not yet fully commissioned, are you?"

"Let Charles go and I will talk."

"Talk and I will let Charles go."

D'Artagnan laughs coldly with as much strength as he can muster. "I will tell you nothing."

Faster than is seemingly possible Fouquet has Charles in his arms and a dagger at his neck. The boy blinks awake groggily, trying to get into a more comfortable position until he realises why he cannot move. "He will die. We know how many men you have. We ride for Paris in three days' time regardless of whether or not you help us."

"Then why do you need me?"

"Well, if we are unprepared, there's no telling how many civilians will be caught in the crossfire. If you give us what we need, we will be far more efficient."

Is it an empty threat? Will they truly ride regardless?

"I know you'll kill him anyway. I won't talk."

A thin red line appears on Charles's skin as the blade cuts into it. "D'Artagnan, please!" he cries, panicking. "I don't want to die!" His face is white and fearful. He starts to try and wriggle free but Fouquet's knife digs only deeper into him and he lets out a choked sob. "Please," he whispers.

"Why do you need the musketeers dead?" d'Artagnan persists, trying to stall for time. Charles is Fouquet's only leverage above him, and they both know that once he is gone there will be no reason for d'Artagnan to talk.

"Vengeance," Fouquet says, "and public service. Did you know that your father hated musketeers? He would have been so disappointed in you ... "

"You're lying."

"He hated the King, did he not? Of course he hated his men. Riding around France killing and stealing from innocents, all under the pretence of honour - "

" _That is not true!_ " D'Artagnan is screaming at him now. "How dare you speak of honour as though you have it. _How dare you!_ " With that he lunges at Fouquet, taking him by surprise so that he drops his knife and hostage and falls back against the wall, hitting his head and sliding to the floor. "Are you all right?" he asks Charles, who is climbing to his feet.

He nods. "I will be."

They move towards the window. Its glass pane is long gone and it is big enough to climb through. Though he is not a particularly religious man, d'Artagnan pauses briefly to cross himself in thanks for the good fortune, picks up the map from the table and helps his friend through the window, scrambling out after him. Fouquet is stirring already and they sprint madly towards a stone gateway, twenty metres in front of them. There are shouts. Gunshots. He feels one bullet buzz past his ear as a wasp would, loud and irritable. Another grazes his thigh.

"D'Artagnan!" Charles shouts, though he can barely hear him through the noise. Looking up, he is just in time to see an armed guard raise his musket towards them before he is knocked sideways behind some barrels.

"Thank you," d'Artagnan says, looking at his panting companion beside him, and then he sees the blood.

Dark and warm, it coats the boy's ragged shirt in seconds. He tries to press down on his torso but has no idea where it is coming from - not until he scrunches his eyes tight shut against the pain when d'Artagnan presses on his stomach. He remembers what Aramis told him. Or was it Athos? _Stomach wounds are_ always _fatal_. That was what he said. " _Charles_ ," he says. "Stay with me. _Stay with me!_ Why did you - ?"

In a faint, tired voice, Charles says, "I didn't want to die a coward."

Hot tears spill out of d'Artagnan's eyes. "You're not a coward. You're the bravest person I - "

Something presses into his hands, covered in blood. Fouquet's dagger.

"Thank you," Charles whispers, "for saving me."

"No. _No!_ "

But his eyes glaze over and Charles Caillat's final breath dissolves in a puff of mist into the cold morning air. D'Artagnan stands, shaking with fury.

He hurls the dagger at Charles's killer and hits him in the throat.

Muskets fire from all directions.

Adrenaline roars through his body.

He bolts towards the gateway and the trees beyond.

Somewhere behind, Fouquet screams his name.

Fifteen metres.

Ten.

With a fierce battle cry d'Artagnan charges through the streaking bullets towards death or freedom.


	7. i keep on falling

**A/N:** Happy Friday night, everybody. I'll keep this short because I just got back from a hockey match and can barely keep my eyes open. Apologies for the lack of proofreading, and for d'Artagnan's language at the end of the chapter.

Many thanks, of course, to my beautiful reviewers: Helensg, pallysdeeks, elbcw, Deana, theredwagon, FierGascon, criminallycharmed, Tidia, Issai (x2), WelshEssex and Debbie. You guys are my life.

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **7**

 **I KEEP ON FALLING**

The funeral is a quiet, solemn affair. Most of the regiment turn up, and the few who do not are all on missions. As per Treville's repeated requests, the King grants each of the musketeers the morning off duty, allowing the Red Guard to pick up their duties. (This is without doubt a terrible decision - they are as incompetent as is allowed without adress and show an utter disregard to d'Artagnan, even in death - but Porthos is not inclined to care.) Though they hoped for sunshine, the cold, unpleasant weather continues and the day is grey and overcast, with a heavy frost blanketing the grass. It is a wonder that they managed to dig a grave.

They bury him just outside of the city, on the edge of a forest. It is beautiful and perhaps fitting, but nothing seems right. Not anymore.

King Louis, damn him, refused to award d'Artagnan a commission or indeed a proper burial at the official musketeers' cemetery. "He never proved himself to me, Treville," he said sharply. "I'm sure he was very brave, but you must understand that I cannot simply _give out_ commissions; everyone would be appealing for one."

"He was a cadet, your majesty," Athos said through gritted teeth.

"Nonetheless," persisted the King. "We know nothing of the circumstances of his death. For all we know, he could have shared all of France's military secrets. I am tired. I do not wish to pursue the matter further."

Aramis, at this point, seemed to lose control: "At least let us give him a proper burial!"

Porthos put a steadying hand on his arm and Athos shot him a warning glare. Louis opened his mouth angrily, but the Queen said softly, "Your majesty, perhaps it would be _right_ to - "

"Enough, Anne!" He rose and told them, "I must rest. You are dismissed."

With that he strode out, leaving the musketeers staring furiously at his retreating back. Bastard. Porthos will make him pay for this somehow, someday. Perhaps this is a thought far too treasonous and corrupt for a king's musketeer - perhaps were it any other man thinking them, Porthos himself would be riding out to arrest him. And yet now ... grief eats at him like a blunt knife, scraping away his insides. Should anyone cut him open, he is certain that they would find him hollow.

He knows they all have their different coping mechanisms when it comes to grief. Porthos himself throws himself into his work, trains harder, exhausts himself until he cannot use his brain any further than to give himself basic commands: eat, move, sleep. His fitness and swordplay has very much improved; he has lost weight; he seems to be starting to block d'Artagnan from his mind. This is at once the first and last thing he wants to do - d'Artagnan deserves to be remembered, yet every time his face looms up in Porthos's mind it is like a stab into his gut.

Athos acts as though nothing has changed. He trains normally, eats and drinks enough ... it is difficult to know whether or not he keeps a regular sleeping pattern. Both Porthos and Aramis have themselves escorted (dragged) him home from the tavern on more than one occasion, and there are always several more bottles of wine waiting beside Athos's bed when they make it back to the garrison. Whenever Porthos looks into his face he sees only the day they found d'Artagnan in the lieutenant's eyes, the broken, ragged expression, more open and vulnerable than any musketeer has ever before seen.

 _They all stare for a solid minute before anyone else moves. Finally, Porthos too climbs unsteadily from his mount and kneels next to Athos, staring into the face of their younger friend. There is no peace in his eyes. He does not look asleep. His features - what is left of them - are twisted into a horrific expression of excruciating pain. Porthos lays a hand on the boy's shoulder and it is cold, unfeeling, and twisted out of its socket beyond replacement. He withdraws his hand so quickly that a burst of pain jolts through his arm._

 _"D'Artagnan," breathes Athos, face stricken. They are both trembling._

 _Aramis stays frozen on his horse. His face is ashen. He sways alarmingly. Morel dismounts and helps Aramis slowly to the ground, where he crumples. "Easy," says Morel, laying him so that he is staring at the sky. From this angle, his rapid breaths are visible. It is doubtful that he is even aware of his surroundings._

 _Athos gathers the Gascon in his arms and lifts him up. "We ride for Paris immediately."_

 _Morel's man (the one who vomited) whispers, "He looks so ... small."_

 _"Don't, Dubois," Morel warns, shaking his head, but the pup is right. D'Artagnan is tiny, so much smaller than Porthos remembers, thin and frail against the muscular form of his mentor._

 _"Can he ride?" Athos inclines his head towards Aramis. He does not seem to be able to tear his eyes away from d'Artagnan._

 _"Not yet. Give him a few moments."_

 _"We ride in two groups," Athos insists. "Those of you with a weaker disposition, remain behind with Aramis. Everyone else, we will return home as fast as possible. At a good pace we should reach the garrison by nightfall."_

 _Porthos rides with Athos and d'Artagnan. The older man refuses to let go of his protegé, even as they near the morgue where he will be kept until the funeral. Treville meets them outside, and it is only when he gently prises Athos's rigid fingers from the stiffening corpse that Athos loosens his hold. "We let him down, Porthos," he murmurs. "He waited for us to rescue him and we didn't."_

 _"I know," Porthos finds himself replying, and it is certainly the wrong thing to say but also the only thing he can._

Contrastingly, Aramis has closed into himself further. The only time they have seen this before is after Savoy. He barely eats. Sometimes he awakens the whole garrison with his screams during nightmares. He is only here because Athos broke into his rooms and forced him into uniform so that he could attend the funeral. "You'll only hate yourself more if you do not go," he said briskly, taking his wrist and dragging him from the stale-smelling chamber. Porthos slipped the hired maid a couple of coins on the way out.

Most of the funeral passes in a blur. Treville leads them through it, and a few others step up to speak. Athos moves as if to add something, but appears to choke on his own words and steps back quietly. To Porthos's surprise, Aramis loses some of his ghostly, vacant manner and watches with them as the party begins to drift towards d'Artagnan's preferred tavern, speaking in hushed tones the words that none of them want to hear.

"We'll find them. Kill them."

The idea of vengeance has, of course, been present ever since Porthos first laid eyes on the body. But the feeling is unlike any he has ever experienced before; rather than the immediate thirst for blood, he feels the need to mourn, ton adapt to life without his young friend. Undeniably the bloodlust will come, as it does without fail, but the wound in him, the gaping hole left in d'Artagnan's wake, blocks from him anything other than sorrow.

"We'll do far worse than that," Athos replies grimly, and as the coffin is buried they turn away from their fallen brother.

* * *

 _Charles. Charles Caillat._ The name pounds through his head with every nauseating step. His legs threaten to give out any second. With so little food, his body's energy reserves were utterly depleted trying to keep him warm in the cell, and now, while mere walking is a challenge, he continues his desperate sprint while musketballs streak past, inches from his body. To stop would be suicide, but if he continues like this, he will die of exhaustion.

Trees. Thick and dense, they urge him into their shadows as he ploughs through the undergrowth. Will he be pursued? Surely so. He leaves a definite path to follow, and those in better health will have no issues hunting him down. But what need do they have for him now? They ride for the garrison anyway. What difference will he make to their plan?

A terrible kind of realisation sinks in. He hoped to deter Fouquet by multiplying the number of musketeers in the regiment; instead, Fouquet will now send too many men. Even as highly trained as they are, his brothers will be vastly outnumbered. D'Artagnan quickens his pace, but despite his head start, the attackers have _horses_ ... it seems unlikely that he will ever make it back to Paris in time to warn his friends. The undergrowth clears and he changes direction slightly, trying to throw them off his trail, but almost immediately he plunges barefoot into a small, shallow stream.

At once thirst and fear battle for foremost position in his list of priorities. Thirst wins. He sits beside the icy water and drinks deeply, his wet hands and feet numbing in the cold air. Aramis's voice somewhere tells him not to drink too much too fast - he'll make himself sick - but day's of deprivation have taken their toll and he only stops once his stomach is fit to burst. Weighed down, d'Artagnan slows his pace to a walk (he is now fairly confident that he is not being followed) and is shocked to find that almost instantaneously a stitch burns through his side. He stumbles into a run, reprimanding himself for slowing down, and the searing pain becomes only worse.

His injured ribs are again making themselves known to him, and he can breathe only shallowly. Glancing down, he sees that already his bare feet are bruised and bleeding. Frostbite is a concern, if he ever stops. Can he make it to the garrison without rest? Unlikely.

He can see his breath in front of him, puffing into steam just as Charles's did. D'Artagnan is battling a mad desire to turn around and slaughter as many of them as he can - die as he surely will in a blaze of glory, not lost and alone for an exploring child to find years in the future. Such thoughts alarm him but he carries on running until it comes to his attention that he does not even know which direction he is facing. The sun is high in the sky and he has been turning so often that he cannot remember where it was earlier.

 _If you're ever going to be a musketeer, you'll have to be stronger._ Athos's voice rings in his ears as he clutches a tree to stop himself, hating the relief that courses through his body. _Faster, too. Aramis would be halfway there by now._ It's true. He clutches at his side, trying to take in as much air as possible without aggravating it, and reaches for the map, which by some miracle is still tucked safely in the waistband of his breeches.

God is somehow on his side. He is running in the right direction.

Here is the monastery, and eastwards is the village where he lay dying ... beyond that, in the top right-hand corner of the map, is Paris, beautiful Paris, where his home is and his friends are. When he gets there he will warn his friends, and they fight Fouquet however they can. Together. Afterwards, he will go to Constance. He will not tell her he loves her, though he does; he cannot force her to commit adultery, to betray her husband, to make a choice. Just being near her will be enough. Then he will journey to Toulouse, perhaps alone, or with Porthos or Aramis for company. Athos will be busy. He will speak to the Caillats and tell them that their son loved them and that he died a noble death. He will tell them of Lucien, if he ever finds out what happened to him. And finally he will earn his commission into the musketeers, return to Gascony, give the farm to his cousin Espoir as he should have done long ago, and live happily in Paris with his new family.

A perfect, golden future.

No money, perhaps, but happiness.

 _Only if he is strong enough._ It is hard to tell with so few landmarks - the stream he passed a while ago gave him a fairly approximate location, and he can determine his direction from the sun - but he has a vague idea of where he is. With a horse, he could be home by nightfall, though the path is winding and slow, but running ... he may be travelling in a straighter line than he ever could on horseback, the trees are so densely packed, but he can't keep going forever, and his legs tremble with exertion. Perhaps at a push he can reach Paris tomorrow night, if he can't find a horse. Sooner if he can find one.

Will that give him time? He can't remember anything Fouquet said. Even if he could, his mind is travelling in too many circles to allow him to calculate the simple arithmetic.

Another stomach cramp hits, and d'Artagnan folds in on himself, groaning. Doubled over, he scarcely sees the world tilt until he hits his head on the ground. The pain no longer feels like hunger. He does not crave food as he did before, mouth watering with longing. He knows he needs it, knows if it was given to him he would not stop eating for hours on end, but now he just feels sick and sorry he was ever foolish enough to let anyone cut him.

 _If you were a stronger musketeer, none of this would have happened._

 _The boy Lucien would still be alive._

 _Charles would still be alive._

He's too weak. He tries to stand but fall back down again, palms grazing painfully on the forest floor. By his estimations, Paris is still a day away, and even then only if he runs.

There is no food in sight. Even if he were able to hunt, it is too cold.

He starts to crawl forward. His brothers are going to die by his hand if he stops.

D'Artagnan doesn't realise he is on a wide path - maybe even a small road - until his hand slips on a stone and his face smashes into it. He looks around.

Forest. When he gets home he never wants to see a tree again.

Still, they make good seats. He settles with his back against one and closes his eyes. _Bandits,_ says Athos's calm voice at the back of his mind. _Slave traders_ , says Aramis.

"Let them come," d'Artagnan murmurs, half-consciously. He is of no use to them anyway.

 _Just let them fucking come._


	8. the wild winds around you

**A/N:** Well, we've hit chapter eight. It's half term, which either means that I'll write a lot or not at all. I guess you'll find out next week.

Eternal love to Issai, FierGascon, criminally charmed, Deana, pallysdeeks, elbcw, theredwagon, Helensg, Tidia, Debbie and Welsh Essex for leaving reviews.

Onwards!

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **8**

 **THE WILD WINDS AROUND YOU**

"Papa, papa. He wakes."

"Hush, now. Don't hurry him."

Something is being coaxed between his lips. A water skin. He drinks. It is pulled away.

"Not too fast now, _mon fils_. Take a little broth."

He takes it. His eyes remain shut.

"What's your name, _m_ _onsieur_?"

He groans softly.

"I said hush, Michel."

"Is he going to die, Papa?"

"Quiet, now."

* * *

The morning after d'Artagnan's funeral, the sun shines brighter than should be allowed. Aramis squints his eyes against its harsh rays, vision still somewhat clouded by the tremendous hangover of the previous night. His head aches. His stomach rolls. Every movement is sickening. Athos does not even rise until several hours after dawn, and when he does his face is white and gaunt, his eyes hollow. He has aged ten years in ten days.

Most of the regiment is slow and sluggish during their morning training, remnants of heavy hangovers still lingering underneath their forced, strong exteriors. When it is noon and time for lunch, a collective sigh of relief is breathed through too-dry mouths. Not, of course, that many of them are particularly hungry. Appetites are lower than ever before, or so it seems. Of all the losses that they have suffered, that of d'Artagnan hits them hard. Too hard, perhaps, for their line of work. Sometimes they find themselves losing men faster than Treville can recruit them.

Porthos ends their sparring session by meeting Aramis's _main gauche_ with his own, hard. Unable to hold on, Aramis succumbs to the stab of pain that shoots through his shoulder and lets out a wheeze, hand flying to it instinctively. His vision goes white for a second; Porthos is upon him in half that time. "What did I do?" he demands, grasping his friend's uninjured arm. "What happened? Are you hurt? Aramis?"

Athos. "What's going on?"

Aramis straightens. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"That was _not_ nothing." Porthos crosses his arms. "You're in pain."

"Well, that does tend to happen when one is shot, _mon ami_."

"You shouldn't be training," Athos says firmly. "Go to the infirmary, and then bed."

"It was just the impact, Athos," Aramis insists. "I'll be fine. I'll only train with my right hand if it would make you happier."

"Aramis - "

"Listen up!" Treville roars across the courtyard. They all turn to look. "Frankly, I'm _appalled_ at your standard of training today. I've _never_ seen you do so badly. You!" he yells frustratedly, at a man with his head in his hands. "Morel took you down with _one hit_! You beat him _four_ days ago! And _you_ \- " now he waves his hand in their general direction - "I don't know what you were doing, Aramis, but why on _Earth_ did you let Porthos hit you like that? No - don't answer. The King is holding a party. You are all to run security. You have ten minutes, and if you don't perk up I _will_ have all of your commissions. _Go!_ "

The men hesitate. None of them have eaten.

" _Now!_ You three with me."

Athos, Porthos and Aramis trail meekly behind him to his office. Athos shoots Aramis a scathing look but tells Treville nothing of his injury, for which Aramis is glad. The captain is notorious for his anger at musketeers who try to conceal injuries, and he is not emotionally prepared to face the full force of his wrath. Not yet.

Treville, too, has been deeply affected by d'Artagnan's death - more so than he lets on. He is angrier, snappish, unpredictable. They do not quite know how to act around him, or when this peculiar behaviour will end.

"You'll be surrounding the King himself. Don't draw too much attention. He's already annoyed at you after your ... disagreement. Keep an eye on him, but keep yourself scarce."

They discuss the party for a short while, and then Treville informs them that he will catch them up. Making their way down the stairs, they note a middle aged man and a much younger one enter the garrison. "We seek an audience with the captain of the musketeers," the older one announces proudly. "My son does."

"And what," Athos says quietly, "will be the nature of this audience?"

"I am to become a cadet," replies the son, puffing his chest out slightly. "And then a musketeer."

"No." Athos shakes his head. "Too young."

"I am not! I've seen men my own age here! Why, one of them even recommended that's I apply! What was his name - d'Art - d'Artagnan! Yes, that was it. If he can be one, why shouldn't I?"

Aramis's gut clenches painfully. This will not end well.

"I said he is _too young_." The lieutenant's voice is dangerously low, but the boy persists.

"Where is he, anyway? Let me talk to - "

In an instant Athos has seized the boy by the throat and slammed him against the wall. " _Do not speak of him!_ " he cries, shaking the boy's shoulders so violently that his head slams against the wall. " _You didn't know him! You -_ "

Gently but firmly, Porthos puts his arms around Athos's arms, pins them to his middle, and pulls him away. Aramis shakes his head wearily at the father, who is shaking with outrage, and the trio moves past before anything worse can happen.

"Go for a walk, Athos," Aramis finds himself saying, against his better judgement. "You have had too much wine and not enough sleep. We will find someone to cover your shift. Do not go to the tavern. You won't drink tonight if we have to tie you to your bed ourselves."

Athos growls, a low, feral rumble in the back of his throat. He turns on his heels and starts across the street.

"Athos," calls Aramis, unable to stop himself, "we've already lost d'Artagnan. Don't let us lose you, too."

Then he looks away so that neither of them can see the tears in his eyes.

* * *

D'Artagnan jolts painfully awake in time to see the sun slowly sink beneath the skyline. He sits up - or tries to. Instead he flops limply against the wooden floor of the wagon he lies in.

" _Monsieur_? Can you hear me?"

"Where am I?" he grunts, finally managing to drag himself up.

"You've had quite the - "

" _Where am I?_ "

"We travel north, to our family in Lille. There may be people there who are able to help - "

"I need to get to Paris," d'Artagnan says firmly, trying to gauge their location from their surroundings. They are, in fact, somewhat familiar; he has ridden from the city many times in a variety of directions and is all too accustomed to its many roads and tracks. No, what alarms him is that they must have already passed Paris in his unconsciousness, for he is certain that they travel away from it.

Something dark flickers across the man's features. "We cannot. In Lille, or on the way, perhaps, we can find you some help, or ... "

"Why not Paris?" d'Artagnan frowns. He tests his aching limbs, one by one. It is not the same pain as he felt when he was poisoned - nothing can ever equal that - but all the same, every small stone the wagon wheels catch on sends jarring pain up his body, catching his breath in his throat. Everything aches, and he suspects that it is not so much from his numerous small injuries as the cold and exhaustion. His mind seems to work slower than normal, and struggles to catch up with speech. Dully, he notes that his ragged shirt is covered with a jacket several sizes too large for him, and his hands and bare, bleeding feet are wrapped in rags for warmth.

"We have passed it now. Tell me, how did you come to be this way? Was it bandits? Slavers? Here, have some broth."

The broth, now, is cold, but d'Artagnan is far too hungry not to accept it.

"Slavers," he says evenly, between small sips, thinking it prudent not to give away his identity just yet. It is evident that these people have something to hide.

" _Mon Dieu._ " The man crosses himself. "How on earth did you escape?"

D'Artagnan shrugs. "I don't really remember." His wrapped fingers drift absently to his thigh, which has been tightly bandaged with a grubby looking strip of fabric. "But I must get to Paris."

"I beg of you, _monsieur_ , not to force me to - "

Shakily, he rises to his feet. The cart wobbles and he teeters precariously on the edge of consciousness when the blood rushes to his head, but regains his calm and demands, "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing, _monsieur_ , we simply cannot enter Paris! Please, sit down before you do yourself further harm."

"Why not?"

Michel, looking frightened, scurries towards the front of the wagon and brings the bony-looking mare to a halt. "Please don't fight," he says. He can hardly be more than seven or eight.

"Hush, Michel," his father repeats, but it is gentle and kind. " _Monsieur_ , I cannot in good conscience leave you to die, as you surely will; equally, nor can I enter Paris, for fear that I will be killed. A nobleman commanded it, and it shall be so."

"You - "

A sigh. "I stole a loaf of bread from a bakery, a long time ago. He was a musketeer, and allowed me to go without punishment if I swore never to return to the city. I intend to keep that oath."

"A musketeer? What was his name?"

"Athos."

D'Artagnan laughs aloud. Of course it is Athos. Who else would it be? "I know him, _monsieur_. We are very good friends, and I know for a fact that he will only be grateful to your for saving my life. He will pardon you, and you will be free to - "

"Respectfully, _monsieur_ , I have only had my life threatened once before. I thought my son was going to become an orphan. Whether you know Athos or not, I refuse to take that risk and endanger Michel's childhood."

He groans. He will make the journey on foot, then, if he has to. Any more time spent travelling in the opposite direction will waste more of the precious little time they have to prepare for the imminent attack. Carefully, he climbs down from the wagon. "I thank you, _monsieur_ , for your hospitality. Without you, I would surely now be dead on a roadside, but I must reach Paris by nightfall. Lives depend on it." He shrugs off the jacket, already lamenting the loss of warmth the action brings, and then the cloths binding his hands and feet. "I swear that I will, someday, find a way to repay you - find you in Lille, perhaps ... I will send a messenger."

"You cannot - you are too weak - "

"I thank you," he calls, already breaking into a lurching, agonising run. The cold burns his skin. His lungs, after just a few short strides, are on fire.

To Paris.

* * *

Athos walks a long, lazy loop through the city, moving slowly but with purpose, circling around until he reaches the garrison again. That child was wrong to come. What kind of father would allow someone of that age to pursue an occupation that will undoubtedly kill them? He has long since made peace with the fact that being a musketeer will be the death of him, as have Aramis and Porthos, but d'Artagnan ... the boy would, of course, argue that he knew the risks of the job, but they all know that he never expected to die. Perhaps that is why it affected the regiment so heavily: the Gascon moved with the carelessness and recklessness only found in the young, the new, green glow that marked him as innocent.

Is that what marked him for death? The fact that he never expected - maybe ultimately _intended_ \- to die on the job, as every other man in the regiment does. Lord knows he didn't; Athos himself has heard him speak of his wishes to marry, have children, grow old ... Of course he is - _was_ \- head over heels in love with Constance, and she was utterly besotted with him. Athos noticed that she never followed them back into the city after the funeral, and when he stopped by at the grave this morning she was knelt beside it, crying. He makes a mental note to visit her sometime and check that she is well. That, at least, is something he _can_ do for his brother.

A child scurries across his path, grubby white feet pounding on the pavement. It is a wonder the little beggar hasn't frozen to death, with no coat or shoes. Athos himself is wearing his thick winter shirt and a fine pair of sheepskin gloves, retained from his old life. They are over the top, admittedly, but warmer and better fitting than any other pair. He also has extra fabric wrapped round his feet and legs underneath his boots, and yet no amount of warm winter clothing can combat the heavy ice that crawls through his veins, the hollow feeling that has settled in his stomach ever since they found d'Artagnan's body. His sense of self-preservation is as low as it was after Thomas's death and Anne's execution, when he staggered into the garrison so drunk he could barely stand and demanded a fight with Porthos, who had cheated him of his money the previous night. By some miracle, Treville had seen his potential and offered to train him, and he, Porthos and Aramis had become good friends.

The point is, he began to take care of himself once he started to have something to live for. He ate again, trained again, dragged himself out of the thick fog which enveloped him, and began to see the world again. Now, the haze is back, and oblivion is every bit as inviting as he remembers. Aramis and Porthos need him (or at least say they do) he knows - _don't let us lose you, too_ \- but d'Artagnan is gone. It should have been him, but it wasn't.

And now they will all pay the price.

"Money for a poor soldier, _monsieur_?" an elderly man sat on the road says, coaxingly. Athos cannot help but think that some day, this may as well be him. He has no estate to sell as he once did - it burnt down weeks ago, and nobody in their right mind would want to buy that blackened husk of a house. Inevitably if he does not die on the job he will be forced to retire at some point, and then what? The king does not care much for him - never has - and he has no chance of becoming Captain, and then a member of the council, as Treville probably shall. He would never take back his old life, but often he wonders what would happen if he did.

He turns into the garrison. It is quiet and still; everyone is at the palace. Really, he thinks, they should have left a couple of guards, but Treville is not thinking properly and everyone is hungry and hungover and in trouble, so it is no wonder that they didn't. Athos will stay here and make sure that nobody comes.

A slow, uneasy movement behind him. Athos turns around, unconcerned, but there, dragging himself up the frosty steps to Treville's office, is a homeless man. Probably driven mad by hunger or the cold, Athos muses. He sighs. He hates this kind of job. For all he knows, this poor man is an ex-musketeer.

"Excuse me," he calls, crossing the courtyard to the bottom of the the steps, just as the figure attempts to stand. "You can't - "

The figure turns, and gives Athos a full view of his face.

He must be hallucinating. He sees wide, shadowed eyes, dark hair, scratched, pale skin that by all rights should be tanned ... _It cannot be real_. Surely he has had too much to drink, not enough food ... he is driven mad by grief. Or he has died unknowingly, and this is some sort of afterlife. Perhaps a ghost stands before him. One of these options, certainly, must be true, because the only other alternative is that _this_ , this sketally thin, pale, blue at the lips young man is ...

"Athos," rasps d'Artagnan, "there are men coming to the garrison. Over a hundred. I don't know when ... they want to - to kill the musketeers. Please - "

Then he falls forward, down the steps, and straight into Athos's terrified arms.


	9. all around me are familiar faces

**A/N:** Well, my darlings, we have hit the final fully written chapter. It has been a pleasure to be able to update regularly, for the first time in my life, but all good things must come to an end, I suppose. I cannot fully vouch for the next update, but I'll give next Friday a shot.

As per usual, many thanks to Issai, Helensg, pallysdeeks, theredwagon, arduna, FierGascon, elbcw, Yorokobi Asahi, criminally charmed, Debbie, Beeblegirl, Tidia, and WelshEssex.

It's nearly half past eleven, so I'll leave it there. I haven't had time to proofread this chapter, so apologies in advance for any errors.

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **9**

 **ALL AROUND ME ARE FAMILIAR FACES**

D'Artagnan is utterly limp and lifeless in his trembling arms. _How can this be?_ The boy is dead. Athos saw his body with his own two eyes. Saw his doublet, his boots ... and yet here he is, in a torn, bloodied shirt, barefoot. Not tortured beyond recognition, just agonisingly thin and - _cold_. Is this a ghost, the questionable existence of which Athos has looked upon with scorn ever since the death of his beloved brother?

"D'Artagnan?" he whispers, sounding alarmingly broken and not caring for a moment. A ghost, surely. For what else could it be? A hallucination, brought on by too much sorrow? Is this one final shred of his sanity, trying to make sense of the tremendous grief which envelops him?

He turns the body (how can it be his friend?) so that its face is turned upwards, towards Athos. That is d'Artagnan, but never before has Athos seen him so young, so vulnerable - no. Not _never_. Once. Once, when they found his body. His _dead_ body. Though as he thinks more and more about it, he begins to wonder: the body was so small, so fragile. Thin and broken as the young man in his arms is, he is far heavier than the body Athos clung to in the hours they spent riding for home. And this is not first time Athos has held him; once, d'Artagnan was hit so hard across the forehead he did not awaken for several hours, and the three remaining musketeers rotated around different positions so that each carried him.

" _D'Artagnan,_ " he says urgently, shaking him slightly. Then he removes one glove and checks for a pulse, which is considered to be constructive. If he would only wake, Athos could be sure that this was no hallucination. But the Gascon's eyes remain stubbornly closed. Athos takes in the shadows around them, the thin scratches across his cheeks, the dark bruise across his jaw. Who did this to him? What horrors has his protegé faced? What horrors should Athos have protected him from?

It suddenly becomes so cold that Athos sinks to his knees, teeth chattering. D'Artagnan lies untidily across his lap. His hands, lips and feet are tinged with dark blue, an unnatural colour for any creature, Athos observes. Were they stained with some sort of dye? Would they wash? Would his shirt? It is stained with something dark and rusty coloured. Some kind of paint, perhaps. Of course, he would still need someone to sew the tears. Constance would probably do it for free. Athos gets the impression that she would do almost anything for D'Artagnan, even while he is dead.

But no - _this_ is d'Artagnan.

 _Is_ he dead?

Is Athos? Could this be the afterlife?

"Athos! Why on Earth aren't you - "

Silence for a second, apart from the seven pounding footsteps that draw Captain Treville to Athos.

"Oh," says the Captain. "Oh, no, no."

And suddenly Treville is knelt beside him, checking the boy for a pulse, shaking him, saying his name - d _'Artagnan d'Artagnan d'Artagnan_ \- screaming for someone to help, but no one comes. The musketeers are all at the palace. He drags the icy mass to its feet, loops its arm across his shoulders, and starts heaving it towards the infirmary. He shouts something back, but Athos just stares at his own hands. One of the gloves has fallen off.

He is still on his knees in the courtyard when the stable boy finally comes running, when the mud or blood or whatever it is on the dusty floor dries completely. When the first flakes of snow begin to fall.

* * *

Treville has held six of his own musketeers in his arms since he became Captain.

The first was his best friend, who was shot in the head two days after Treville's promotion. The second was a man he can only remember as Georges, who was tortured for weeks on end but gave no information, and wept against his mentor's chest for hours after his return. The third was Aramis, barely conscious and utterly without faith in humanity after the massacre in Savoy. Fourth was Jean, a stable boy looking to one day become a cadet, killed when a horse kicked his chest in. Then Porthos, when, without warning, the man pulled him into a fierce embrace after a near-death experience.

Now he holds d'Artagnan. Athos remains in some sort of delirium on the ground, but the lad's hands and feet are blue and he is thin as a waif. How he is still alive is beyond all logical reason; the faint, thready pulse at his wrist and his slow, shallow breaths, however, force the Captain into action. He shouts to Athos for help but receives no response. Taking no heed of this lack of action, he instead focuses on carrying d'Artagnan to the infirmary, calling to anyone in there, to the stable boy, to a messenger, to anyone who might be able to find him some help.

Why in God's name did he choose to send the entire regiment to the palace?

As he heaves d'Artagnan into the small infirmary and a bed (while the boy is far lighter than he has any right to be, any human mass is a difficult one to move), he notes its emptiness. No patients means no staff, of course. There is no point caring for the needs of ghosts. In one cupboard, there are piles of folded blankets - more blankets than there are beds - and he takes them all and puts them over d'Artagnan. The fireplace is cold and empty so he lights it as quickly as he can, and puts four large, flat stones from a shelf to warm in front of it. Later he will wrap them in rags and place d'Artagnan's hands and feet upon them in an attempt to warm them.

"Sir?" Jacques, the stable boy, pants. Evidently he has come running.

"Send for Lemay and fetch Aramis and Porthos from the palace when you have. As fast as you can. Tell them that d'Artagnan is alive."

Jacques stares for a moment. It is clear that he has heard of the youngest cadet's alleged plight. "And Athos, Sir?"

"Leave him," Treville says, turning away. It is harsh and he knows he needs to do something about it. The lieutenant will likely catch his death out there, but someone will be here soon, and a Treville cannot from his mind the image of of Athos sat there, watching the life slowly drain out of his friend.

The stones are warm enough. Treville wraps them and gently places them under the layers of blankets. D'Artagnan still has not stirred. Will they ever see those warm brown eyes again?

For want of something better to do, the Captain starts to heat some water. Perhaps they can bathe him in it to bring up his temperature. Lord knows he is filthy enough to warrant a wash. Dirt and blood streak his features. In a panic, Treville tears open his shirt, practically dyed rusty brown with dried, crusty blood, but there is no wound but for livid bruising across his torso, small scrapes and larger ones across his hands and feet, and a deep gash gouged across his thigh that Aramis or the surgeon will have to deal with, because Treville cannot.

He has no idea what happened leading to this tremendous fuck-up, but he'll be damned if he doesn't save this lad's life.

* * *

"Look at them," Aramis remarks boredly. Ever since d'Artagnan, the dry, sarcastic humour has vanished from his tone. "So ... _regal_. As if they're so much better than everyone else in the room."

"Even the ones of higher status," Porthos adds, perhaps unnecessarily. He has lost track of what he does and does not need to say any more. Everything he does seems to have little purpose now.

Aramis snorts. "The Cardinal treats the King like some sort of child."

"Fair enough," Porthos mumbles under his breat. His friend shoots him an amused look. Aramis's statement appears to be correct: a few metres away (it is hard to remain vigilant at a distance with all the noise and activity in the room) the Cardinal seems to be scolding the King. Louis, irritated, backs away, taking his wife by the wrist as he does so and tugging her away from her own conversation. Behind him, Aramis makes a strange noise that could be a coincidence but probably isn't.

They follow the couple subtly, remaining close by should their assistance be required. It never is, but Treville insists that they err on the side of caution, and he is usually right.

Porthos observes the ballroom. It is exquisitely beautiful - too much so for his own liking. Even the ceiling, seemingly miles above their heads, is carved so intricately that were he gifted with inhuman eyesight he is sure he could see every detail on each individual piece. Golden embellishments twist up the already shining walls. The floors are so vigorously polished that he has counted four people slip over already.

It all seems so futile, the vast expenses spirited away in an instant. And yet not a penny could be spared for d'Artagnan's burial as a musketeer.

"Porthos! Aramis!" Morel strides over to them, a wheezing young man behind him. Porthos dimly registers that this is one of the stable lads. He is clutching his side and breathing heavily. Has he run from the garrison? "You're needed down at the garrison."

"Why?" Aramis asks, stepping forward. Porthos keeps the king in his peripheral vision. It pays to be prepared.

They all look at the boy. "D'Artagnan," he pants, without explanation.

The trio exchange a bewildered look. "Go," says Morel after a moment. "We have you."

Already, Aramis is forcing his way through the crowd, mouth set in a harsh line of grim determination. Once he has set out to do something, there is no stopping him. Porthos admires that in a man. Perhaps that is why they are such firm friends. He crashes through after him, knocking one maiden flying - "my apologies, _mademoiselle_ " - and receiving a filthy look from her father, who is, thankfully, swallowed by the swarm of people a second before he can reach his daughter's assailant. Aramis is almost at the door by now; hurriedly, Porthos pushes through the final group and stumbles dizzily into the corridor.

"Come on," Aramis says, and they are running. The journey to the garrison has never taken so long. Every twist and turn seems to seek only to trip them. When they slid to a halt in the courtyard, they are faced with the sight of Athos, who is kneeling on the ground in the centre of it. It has started to snow, and sparse, dreary white flakes drift downwards, settling in their hair and clothes. Porthos glances towards the infirmary, where a nurse is exiting with a bucket of water. "Inside," she calls.

Seeing his friend's uncertain glances between Athos and the infirmary, Porthos makes the decision for him. "I've got Athos," he says, moving towards him. Aramis runs to the right, and a door opens, then slams shut against the cold air.

"Athos." He shakes the lieutenant's shoulders slightly. "Can you hear me?"

He is afraid, but has seen the man in a similar condition once before, so lost in his own thoughts that he does not notice his surroundings. The main problem here is the cold; Athos's fingers are white and the same temperature as the air around them. He is shivering slightly (from cold or panic, he cannot tell) and unresponsive to any of his friend's coaxing. Eventually, Porthos decides that it will be best for both of them if they go indoors. He too is starting to shiver.

Instead of going into the infirmary, Porthos wraps one unresponsive arm across his own shoulders and grasps the man's rib cage, lifting him gently, and heading for the living quarters. He knows Athos like a brother and, equally, understands that a doctor will do him little good. Porthos has never been a particularly curious man, and whatever lies in the infirmary can wait. Athos is the one who needs help now. "Come on," he mutters, dragging him up the first few stairs. From his side comes an incomprehensible mumbling, from delirium or cold or both. Something terrible must have happened to put him in this state.

Perhaps there _is_ something of great importance in the infirmary. He thinks back to what the stable boy said, back at the palace ... d'Artagnan's name. It stung like a knife to his gut when he heard the name, but Porthos thought nothing of it - the boy barely knew any names, and he was probably confused between them.

He stops.

Surely -

He spins around, Athos still clutched to his side, and moves as quickly as he can with a dead weight across his shoulders back the way he came. He just has to _see_ ...

Before he can reach it, the door flies open, and Treville is peering out. "Come _on_ ," he says, running through the light snow to help. "What's wrong with him?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Porthos replies. "It happened once before, though, when he started drinking more heavily again, and we thought Aramis had died for a minute."

Athos stares vacantly into space, unaware of what is happening. Treville, much to Porthos's consternation, gives him an almighty slap across the cheekbone. His head snaps sideways and he blinks several times, but otherwise remains in a similar condition to before. "Shit," says Treville.

"What's in there?" Porthos nods at the door.

Treville sighs heavily, reaching out with his free hand to open it. "You'd better see for yourself."


	10. if i had wings

**A/N:** I made it! I finished this chapter last night, and while I can't really promise to update again this time next week, I am hopeful about two weeks from now, at least ...

Many thanks, as always, to elbcw, FierGascon, Issai, Debbie, Helensg, criminally charmed, Tidia, and Beeblegirl.

Until next time!

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **10**

 **IF I HAD WINGS**

D'Artagnan.

Aramis has never been so sure of anything than he is that _this_ is his brother. Not the body they found lying in the middle of the road, the one they carried home, the one they buried in a beautiful space beside a beautiful forest. This, this young man so thin and covered in blankets, this boy, utterly unresponsive to their efforts to rouse him, _this_ is d'Artagnan. He does not know what happened, but his face, while scratched and bloody, is not that of a tortured person. Even in sleep, a frown creases his brow. When Aramis lays a hand across it to check his temperature, it is icy.

The door bangs open again, bringing a cold draught with it. The room is heating to almost sickening temperatures, and there are so many people crowded around the narrow bed that everyone is feeling slightly claustrophobic. "What's going on?" comes Porthos's voice, and Aramis finds himself shoved to the side. His friend takes one single, disbelieving step forward, shaking his head.

"It can't be - "

His words are meant with resounding silence. Eventually, Aramis says, "It is."

Porthos opens his mouth again, but before he can speak the nurse by the fireplace cries out that the water is boiled. Lemay lurches into action, dragging a large tub half-filled with cold water across the floor so that the nurse can pour all the hot water into it. He puts his arm in to the elbow and, apparently satisfied, gestures to two of his assistants. They peel back the layers of blankets, grab d'Artagnan under his arms and carry him across the room. When they reach the bath, they lower him down into it. He is still wearing his clothes - or what is left of them. His head lolls backwards barely controllably, and Lemay places a steadying hand behind it. "What are you doing?" Porthos asks.

"This is the only way I know to warm him up," Lemay replies. They are scarcely a foot away from the roaring fire. "Here, come and hold him."

Aramis moves to take the doctor's place, but Porthos gets there first, tenderly stroking the stray hair from d'Artagnan's face. "He feels warmer," he observes almost immediately.

"I think so," agrees Lemay.

Satisfied by the surgeon's judgement for the time being, Aramis tears his eyes away from d'Artagnan and moves as if in a dream towards Athos, whom Porthos has deposited neatly onto a bed. He sits bolt upright, eyes wild and unfocused, hair damp with melted snow. It is notable, however, that he appears to be breaking out of his earlier trance - perhaps due to the change in temperature - and now blinks bewilderedly, gazing at Porthos, whose large frame blocks d'Artagnan from view. "How are you?" Aramis murmurs, fearful of shocking him with loud noise.

"Can you see him too?" Athos asks, by way of reply, shifting his focus to Aramis.

"See d'Artagnan?"

"You can see him?"

Thus, Aramis realises what is happening inside his brother's mind, and it feels just as he would expect a sailor to feel as his boat lists sideways and begins to sink, only able to watch the shoreline vanish from view as the ocean swallows him up.

Athos, clearly, has lost track of reality, so fixated was he on d'Artagnan's early death. From the little Aramis knows of the musketeer's past, he understands that Athos had a younger brother, Thomas, about the same age as d'Artagnan is now, who died. This turn of events, he believes, caused Athos to turn away from his home and family and journey to Paris, where he lived for several weeks drunk and in poverty, until Treville found him and took him in. Lord only knows what he saw in that time.

"Can I ... ?" Athos is standing slowly, legs threatening to buckle at any moment.

"You don't have to ask," Aramis whispers, holding out a steadying arm to the musketeer. He ignores the stabbing pain that spikes through his shoulder as the older man added some of his own weight; a fine sheen of sweat begins to appear on his brow, and his whole body feels somewhat cold and shivery, but it will not do to stop now. They work there way slowly towards the steaming bath, where Porthos has begun to tenderly clean the blood and dirt from the lad's face. Lemay has his hands in the water, cutting d'Artagnan's ragged shirt from his body.

Aramis draws in a sharp breath at the bruising across the Gascon's torso. His ribs are dark purple in colour, livid against his unnaturally pale skin. Lemay probes them gently, and at last they see a slight movement, one single indication that he is still alive: his smooth brow furrows slightly in pain, and a tiny groan escapes his throat. "He lives," breathes one of the attendants in shock, and Aramis realises that none of them truly expect him to.

They have clearly never been exposed to d'Artagnan. He has the luck and fire of the Devil himself. He is as untouchable as any man in existence, more so than most. How on Earth he remains breathing at this point is beyond all logical reason - by all rights, he should be dead, should have been dead for a considerable length of time ... and yet, the very same stubborn persistence that had so irritated Aramis when they were first acquainted, and later grew on all of them so much that it had become as much a part of the garrison as Athos's hangovers, has kept him fighting, even now.

"Will he survive?" Athos asks, apparently coming back to his senses, but before anyone can give any sort of doubtful reply d'Artagnan stirs again. Porthos bends down and begins to murmur something unintelligible in his ear.

"D'Artagnan?" says Treville. There is total silence but for the slight splashing of the bath as his weight shifts. His eyes flutter open - how in God's name is he still functioning? - and he stares at them all for a moment.

Then, in a voice that is not quite his own, he says, "There are men coming. More than a hundred. I don't know when. They want to kill ... " he trails off, eyes sliding shut.

" _D'Artagnan_ ," Lemay says firmly, the only one in the room not speechless with surprise. He grips the bare, bruised shoulder and d'Artagnan hisses.

"They want to kill the musketeers," he finishes softly, and closes his eyes again.

* * *

 _"Fontaine," declares Aramis, somewhat overly cheerfully, in d'Artagnan's opinion, "will run at the first whiff of law enforcement. You know what that means, gentlemen." He waves his arm in a dramatic, sweeping gesture._

 _D'Artagnan intervenes before he can go any further. "No, I don't believe I do."_

 _Athos, silent until this point, emits a single, incredibly pained groan. Porthos is clearly trying to arrange his features into an expression of boredom or scorn, but is failing miserably: a broad smile threatens to split his face in half. "Not to worry," says Aramis briskly, with a wicked grin._

 _"Yeah, you'll pick it up fast," Porthos adds._

 _"Porthos, you can be the less intelligent fellow slave trader; I'll be your cunning friend - Athos, you can be the - ah, the, er ..."_

 _The lieutenant has fixed his sharpshooter with some a fearsome glare that Aramis appears quite lost for words. (It is, d'Artagnan suspects, mostly show on both of their parts, for this is a well practised routine with which they are all very familiar.)_

 _"The strong, silent traveller drinking alone on a nearby table," Aramis finishes smoothly, and his gaze comes to rest upon d'Artagnan. He has a horrible feeling that he knows where this is going, and an equally certain feeling that he is not going to like it. "D'Artagnan, I'm afraid you will have to be a slave." He does not sound in the least bit sorry._

 _"Absolutely not." Athos's voice cuts through the blaze of irritation threatening to give Aramis a hard slap to the face._ That Gascon fire _, as Porthos once put it, is true to form. "The boy's barely been with us three weeks. You cannot ask him to partake in your juvenile games, particularly as such a degrading and humiliating role. He will be my companion." D'Artagnan feels a surge of gratitude towards the older man; assistance against the other two is hard to come by, especially from him. And from the sound of it, Athos is indignant in his name - he begins to take on more complex vocabulary when he is annoyed. Aramis, allegedly, suspects that it is an unconscious mechanism designed to impress higher intelligence upon the individual he is arguing with._

 _"But it will be_ so _much more realistic_ , _" Aramis pleads. "He has the young, innocent look, and I'll bet he couldnt look threatening to save his life. D'Artagnan?"_

 _"I - "_

 _He has reached a dilemma. He cannot decline the role without looking weak, overly proud, or too eager to follow Athos (or quite possibly all three) and yet, at the same time, to accept would be to take an opposing side to his mentor and, simultaneously, take on a role that would be humiliating to play. They have all seen the way the likes of slave traders such as Fontaine treat their "products", as such, with no regard for their wellbeing._

 _D'Artagnan opens his mouth, still not fully sure what is going to come out of it, when Porthos begins to chuckle. "Your face!" he says, turning towards Aramis, who is grinning. "Of course we wouldn't expect you to do that. You can go with Athos and observe, it being your first time, and all."_

 _Bewildered, he finally gives in and smiles. "Can somebody please explain to me what is going on?"_

 _"Aramis and Porthos find it entertaining from time to time to pretend to be someone else, as such, in order to get close to criminals." Athos's words are cutting, but not, he imagines, untrue. "I have no idea why, but it keeps them entertained, I suppose."_

 _Mind reeling, d'Artagnan thinks for a moment. How is he expected to react in this scenario? However well Aramis and Porthos try to play it off as a joke, he cannot shake the feeling that this has been a test, and one that he has failed spectacularly. But how can he make it up, show them that he_ is _brave enough to be a musketeer, to do whatever it takes to protect the Crown? What can he do, now, after he has shown them a cowardly side of him? Should he hope to prove his worth against Fontaine, or brush it off as nothing and pray that it really was only a joke? Has he done this before, unknowingly? What on Earth must they think of him?_

 _One small thought remains nestled at the back of his mind. Aramis, playful or not, was right. It_ would _look far more realistic if one of them were to own a slave ... no matter how humiliating it may be, if he can prove his worth, it will not have been for nothing._

 _"D'Artagnan? Did you hear what I just said?"_

 _"I'll do it," he says firmly, forgetting for a moment that they have not been included in his chain of thought._

 _Athos blinks. "Do what?"_

 _"I'll be a slave. If that's what it takes, I'll be the slave. We can catch him in the act. You'll sell me to him, he'll accept, we'll arrest him."_

 _"Stronger men have fallen into that trap before, d'Artagnan," warns Aramis, voice grave. "The regiment has lost many to slavers like Fontaine. I'll not put you at risk like that."_

 _Pushing down the surge of anger at the implication that he cannot protect himself, he replies shortly. "I can do it. You'll all be there, won't you?"_

 _"Yes, but - "_

 _"You said yourself that it would be more realistic if I did it."_

 _"D'Artagnan," Athos says firmly. "You are with me, and that's the end of it."_

 _It is beginning to look as though he has failed to prove himself yet again, but Porthos stops them in their tracks. "No, d'Artagnan's right. Let him try."_

 _"It can't be that hard," d'Artagnan adds, possibly unnecessarily, because Athos and Aramis are exchanging a look which seems to block out all surrounding noise. He still cannot fully grasp how the three of them are able to convey so much while saying so little; each day, these tiny quirks of theirs that betray their friendship become more and more glaringly obvious, and sometimes he wonders how they will eve accept him as one of their own._

 _Sometimes he wonders if he'll ever deserve to be accepted as one of them._

 _"Take your doublet off," Aramis finally (and somewhat reluctantly) agrees. "We'll rehearse, and see how you act. Then we'll decide."_

 _Athos looks uncomfortable, but in a thoroughly protective manner, and something that could be respect flickers in Porthos's eyes. Perhaps he'll never truly be one of them, but for the first time since his father's death, d'Artagnan may have found a home._

 _"_ D'Artagnan, _" someone says. He spins around, wondering who it is, but there is nobody there. He blinks. "_ D'Artagnan, _" Come the voice again, this time louder, but muffled by a slowly growing ringing in his ears._

He jolts awake, though his eyes do not open, and his muscles, when they relax, have not contracted very much at all. For a while he is content to simply breathe, painful though it is, and finds himself drifting.

 _"Athos, you be Fontaine," Aramis says. Athos sighs but, to his credit, does as he is told._

 _He stands in front of them, silent and stoic as ever._

 _"Try saying something," Porthos suggests unhelpfully. "_ Open your eyes. _"_

 _But that's not right; this isn't how it happened -_

"D'Artagnan," says someone who can only be Treville.

Someone has a hand on his shoulder.

And above it all, Porthos's gentle, familiar voice: "Open your eyes. Open your eyes for me. Open your eyes."

 _"Perfect," says Aramis. "That's perfect."_

He forces his eyes open and tries to gasp out all he has to say. Whether he manages it or not remains to be seen: all he knows are the faces of his friends, and as he watches they warp beyond recognition until they are twisted into expressions of shock and disgust. Panicked, he tries to blink away the vision, but they remain staring at him in horror.

He has betrayed them.

Someone's talking again, but d'Artagnan ignores them and watches vacantly until a haze turns into grey, and grey fades to black. He has seen enough. All he wanted was to tell his story; that is done; all he wants now is oblivion.


	11. are we playing with fire?

**A/N:** Deepest apologies that it's been so long. I've been impossibly busy.

This chapter hasn't been edited or even just proofread once, so just try and muddle through it as best you can.

Many thanks to pallysdeeks, theredwagon, Debbie, criminally charmed, FierGascon and Tidia, all of whom took the time to review. To those of you who requested a continuation of d'Artagnan's flashback - much as I'd love to do something like that, it doesn't really fit with the way this story is going and instead I seem to be cycling through some of the most important moments the boys share.

Sorry again about the lack of action in this chapter. Next time something will happen, I promise.

Enjoy!

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **11**

 **ARE WE PLAYING WITH FIRE?**

 _D'Artagnan swallows._

 _He is lay on his side in a shallow ditch of sorts, naturally formed under a fallen tree so that he can roll under and hope to avoid detection - for a short while, at least. It is his fourth mission with the musketeers and might well be his last: everything has gone spectacularly wrong. The last he saw of any of the other three, Athos was unconscious, Porthos carrying him and not much aware of anything else and Aramis mysteriously disappeared, probably captured by the group of bandits who had, for better or worse, been chasing them for hours._ _A ferocious battle cry sounded from behind them and the three remaining scattered. Athos flopped to the ground, Porthos, with the package they are meant to be transporting, vanished into the trees and d'Artagnan found himself tumbling down a steep slope punctuated by trees and, by the feel of it, thorn bushes._

 _He made a wild run towards the village they came from, tripped, noticed the natural crevice, and rolled into it gratefully. A small group thundered over, unaware, but now another one has inexplicably decided to set up a camp, mere yards_ _away and in plain view of his hiding place. For now, the darkness underneath the log and the fact that nobody is searching for him here has protected him, but all it will take is a well aimed glance towards the log and he is found. He cannot move without them all seeing him - and killing him._

 _By his estimations, there are six men, all of them armed and fit. One of them is lamenting the loss of his left boot - no, it has simply filled with cold, muddy water. It is hardly a terrible fate. The summer is a hot one, the air thick and still, and even stationary, d'Artagnan can feel the sweat trickle down his spine. His mouth is dry and he longs for a drink of water._

 _"How far d'you think he got?" one man says conversationally. They have settled into a circle of sorts by the fire._

 _"Not far. Mathieu's a good tracker."_

 _"He is the last one, correct?"_

 _"Yes. The others are being held back at the farm."_

The farm. _He has little idea of what they are talking about, but that is where his comrades are, and that is where he will rescue them from. He allows himself to gently let go of the dim, doubtful hope that was nestled in his chest, hope that someone might come and save him. It was never a given, anyway - Treville's words from the lessons the cadets had some months ago ring in his head (_ the mission will sometimes be more important than any of your lives _) and_ _from the way Porthos disappeared back there, he is starting to wonder if they ever really cared about him at all._

 _Considering his odds, he counts again: six men, armed. They are fully awake and in deep conversation. Even if he were to jump out and run quietly enough that their voices masked the sound of his escape, they would still see his movement, still be able to shoot him or catch him up and capture him. No, he is better off waiting to reassess when they are all sleeping. His sword and gun are gone, lying in the mud somewhere (he imagines), and he has only his slightly dented_ main gauche _for protection. It will not be enough to keep six men away, but perhaps he could kill one and hope to slow the others enough to run into the forest._

 _It would be ineffectual to wonder whether or not they will find him, he decides - worrying only makes one suffer further. Instead, he focuses on keeping his breathing quiet and even, and looks around him as best he can for a way out of this mess. Perhaps he could dig his way out the other side of the fallen tree, so that he wouldn't have to clamber over the top? But that would risk bringing it down on top of him, and they would surely hear him trying to dig._

 _Never has waiting and hoping seemed such an impossible concept. He is afraid to fall asleep for fear that he will make a noise or change position, revealing himself._

 _Evening, eventually falls, and with it comes swarms of mosquitos. The bandits stack green branches onto their fire in an attempt to use the smoke to ward off the insufferable creatures and, for the most part, it seems to work. D'Artagnan, however, is defenceless against them, and can only let them land on his skin._

 _Without warning, the unthinkable happens: a mosquito, against all odds, manages to fly into his mouth, straight into the back of his throat. His throat spasms; unavoidably, he coughs._

 _At once six heads swivel round to his hiding place._ Shit. _The nearest bandit marches over, bends down, and seizes d'Artagnan's doublet, dragging him out of the shelter by his collar. He laughs manically while d'Artagnan fumbled for his_ main gauche _, only to see it lying on the ground mere feet away. Wildly, d'Artagnan aims a punch at his face, only to find his hand caught and twisted behind his back. He lashes out with his feet but to no avail; they have him caught._

 _Then, quite suddenly, the mass pinning him drops. He falls with the dead bandit, somewhat dazed by the quick subsequent events, and by the time he scrambles to his feet, all six men are dead._

 _His three friends emerge from the trees, Athos with a tremendous gash across his temple, Porthos sporting what seems to be a gunshot wound to his side, and Aramis looking relatively unscathed. "But - " he stutters, bemused, "but the package, the mission - "_

 _Porthos grins widely. "Did you really think we wouldn't come back for you?"_

* * *

"Well, it's simple, isn't it?" Louis surveys them from his throne, as though he has real authority over them, and they none over him. "You Musketeers lie in wait for them a short way from Paris - you know which road they'll take, don't you? - and kill them before they make it here."

There is a beat of silence while everyone present (Treville, Athos, Porthos, the Cardinal and Queen Anne) stares at him in utter bewilderment. It is Treville who, eventually, speaks first: "Your Majesty, surely you cannot ... ?"

"What?"

"Well, actions of the sort are widely considered to be ... _inethical_ , your Majesty," said the Cardinal silkily, unfazed.

"Well, they'd do worse, would they not?"

Treville seems to struggle to find the right words. "Yes, but as the King's men, you must understand that an honourable example must be set for the people. Perhaps a different course of action would be more appropriate."

"Hmm."

"Your Majesty, if I may ... ?" Porthos steps forward, ignoring Athos's warning glare. The older man does not like them speaking in court; whether it is because he is embarrassed or trying to protect them, Athos himself does not know, but it makes him uncomfortable, either way. Louis waves a frustrated hand in their general direction. "'Ow about we - " Porthos stops, and corrects himself - "what if we were to attack and take prisoners? Find out why they're attacking, put them in the Chatelet for a proper sentence when we're done?"

"I don't like the thought of bringing so many prisoners through the streets at once," says the King solemnly. Athos fights to hold back his derisive snort: the ruler, if he can truly be called that, has insisted on far worse plans being carried out, and had others blamed when they failed.

Richelieu clears his throat. "Perhaps Porthos is right. A demonstration of the king's power and goodwill might do the people some good."

 _Anything to create a little more chaos,_ Athos thinks drily. He has do doubt of the Cardinal's certainty that things will go horribly wrong. But with a good, strong team ... Raphalen, Hubert, Clement. Three strong leaders with one team of three each, as well as Athos and his three - but no. D'Artagnan will not be joining them. Not for this fight.

After hours, there has been no change, and, when Athos came to himself completely, the three soldiers left Aramis behind with d'Artagnan and Lemay and went to the King. Further than some restless stirring, the Gascon has shown no signs of progress towards waking. "As far as I can tell," Lemay told them quietly, "he is exhausted beyond measure. I have no idea how he managed to get here on foot, but he pushed his body past its limit. There's no telling whether he'll come back again."

It is too similar to the scene they all watched as if from a distance, what feels like months before. Disbelief still has their ears ringing numbly - how could they have mistaken that strange body for their brother's? But none of that matters now. What _matters_ is the fact that they are reliving the nightmare he has fought so hard to forget, a strange candlelit vigil around a bed soaked with sweat and pain and fear and sorrow. Except this time it will not end in a fight, a disappearance, and a broken hope.

This time there are only two ways it can end, and Athos wants to be there when it does.

More conversation passes by, and he ignores it, until Porthos is gently tugging on his arm and he bows to the King and strides out. "We'll take twenty men, I think," says Treville thoughtfully, as they exit. "The three of you, of course, if you want."

"Of course."

Athos speaks unconsciously, not (regrettably) out of desire for revenge, but out of necessity: the need to protect, to fight, to prove himself as he has done time and time again to the other men. Perhaps in truth he is not brave but insecure - too insecure to do anything other than this. He is sure that other men have other motivations, but for him conflict comes as easily as breathing, and is every bit as well needed. Does Porthos rely on it so heavily? Does Aramis? Does d'Artagnan, and will he ever fight again?

 _It's thinking like that which loses wars,_ Aramis, newly commissioned, once announced solemnly to Athos on their first mission together. They were surrounded and trapped inside a small wooden shack they'd stumbled across during a mad run through woodland. Stupidly, they had gone inside, assuming they had lost their pursuers, and then were only able to watch helplessly as an inordinate amount of men closed in. Athos drily remarked that he'd like to die with his eyes shut, if at all possible, and Aramis's stern reprimand irritated him beyond measure. It was, in fact, Porthos who eventually united the pair, and after that the three of them were inseparable.

The garrison looms up in front of them before Athos knows it, and the other two are already at the door to the infirmary. For one fleeting moment panic threatens to overwhelm him and he can scarcely open the door for fear of what he might find, but an icy gust of wind propels him forward into the warm.

Little is happening and the vague air of horror has died away. Lemay's attendants are gone, and only the doctor himself, Aramis, and Treville and Porthos are here. A pot is boiling over the fire, presumably, from the smell of it, containing food. A second bed has been made up in the corner so that Lemay can observe d'Artagnan through the night, and they all seem to be conferring sat on the bed adjacent to the Gascon's.

He can barely see the boy, but he is there, half buried under a pile of sheets and blankets. The barest tinge of colour shines dully on his cheeks. His face is utterly motionless and for a moment it seems that he has passed. Then the mountain covering him rises slightly and he breathes quietly; satisfied, Athos tears his gaze away and tries to focus his attention on the others.

"It seems to me that he could slip away in his sleep, between breaths. He's barely strong enough to draw them in," says Aramis, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Porthos adds, "That bloody scares me."

They all sigh and watch the gentle rise and fall of the blankets for a while. "Perhaps we ought to place him more upright," says Lemay, "to ease his breathing slightly."

Obligingly, Athos fetches some more pillows and tenderly lifts the boy's head to place them underneath. He is fearful that if he is too rough, he will snap the fragile body in half. Once he is done, he draws the blankets back up to d'Artagnan's chin, still cold despite the heat of the room, which has Athos's own cheeks glowing fiercely.

"No use sitting here worrying," Porthos remarks, pulling an infirmary pillow out of nowhere and placing it on a bed. He takes a swig of brandy from the bottle they have evidently been passing round and then settles down, eyes closed but head turned towards his brothers. Aramis, too, takes a hearty gulp, offers it to Lemay, who declines, and then pushes in the stopper and tosses it across to Atjos, who catches it one-handed.

Half the bottle is left and he drinks it all.


	12. meet me on the battlefield

**A/N:** Well, by some freak of nature, I'm updating on a Friday night again, a week after the last chapter came out. I'll keep this short, because I've had a terrible week and need to sleep.

Many thanks, as always, to my lovely reviewers: Tidia, elbcw, and FierGascon.

Apologies for any mistakes. I haven't proofread and my iPad's autocorrect is not at its finest. Otherwise, enjoy!

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **12**

 **MEET ME ON THE BATTLEFIELD**

They stand in small huddles at the top of the bank, shivering with cold and nervous anticipation. For many, if not all, of them, it is the first time they have stooped to this standard by such a large degree. Several men flatly refused to take part, even when assured that they would be taking prisoners only. Aramis understands their logic: the bandits will hardly surrender without fighting to kill, and if killing is the only form of self defence, no musketeer will hesitate to use lethal force. It is difficult for Aramis, having seen what he has seen of these men, to find within himself any form of compassion for them, but for others less emotionally invested in the cause it is only natural that the utter lack of honour in the King's obscene plan would go down badly.

He cannot shake the feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong - there will be more men than they thought, they will be better trained than the ones they fought before ... It is the waiting that hurts him. Any other battle which comes their way they are unprepared for, and the rush of adrenaline forces away any traces of fear. Now, the nervous energy thrums through his veins with his pulse, and his hands, try as he might to still them, will not cease their shaking. Has he ever been this nervous before? In a marksman, it is crucial the the hands remain steady. Of course, there are no guns to use now. They don't even have horses.

"Over a hundred," says Athos suddenly. Aramis and Porthos turn to him.

"What?"

"More than a hundred," Athos repeats. "That's what d'Artagnan said to me. When I found him."

Aramis swallows. "Probably delirious. Half dead with cold and exhaustion. He barely made sense when he told us they were coming. We don't even know that they _are_ coming."

"You don't think - " Porthos begins, and then stops himself.

"Where's the scout?"

"Not back yet."

They turn their attention, tensely, to the road. D'Artagnan did not specify a date or time when they would be attacked. Of course they are grateful for the warning (if, dare he say it, it turns out to be true) but he almost wishes in his current state that they could have been left in blissful ignorance, for a short while longer at the very least. The group have been here for six hours, or thereabouts, and although they were all warned that they could be waiting for days, it is clear that several of the man are growing restless. Most of them have not seen true battle - not complex, planned combat, with multiple men crushing against multiple men at an almost set time and location. Lord knows, he understands their discomfort, but equally, he wishes they would calm down. The constant agitation is doing horrors for the group's morale.

Athos, too, seems to sense the tension in the air - "Peace," he calls to them. "The scout has not yet returned. Have some food and a little brandy to calm your nerves." At this, the men look up hopefully. Athos flares at Porthos who reluctantly removes four skins (presumably full to burst with the liquor) and tosses them across to the others.

"Have you got any water?" Aramis asks, unnerved by the sudden display of desperation or despair. It seems that they, too, have noticed something amiss, an aberration in the day-to-day comings and goings of the regiment. It seems that they, too, are fully aware that the King's foolish adamance has forced them onto a possible suicide mission. For how can they defend themselves without killing, and how can they kill seemingly unprovoked without a consequent loss of popularity which will lose them any hope of solidarity with the people? If d'Artagnan dies, there will be no witnesses to the bandits' ill intentions: to the public, it will seem that they were simply a travelling group of friends.

D'Artagnan. So deeply was Aramis torn between staying with him and going to fight that he did not know until e was sat on his horse. The boy is so weak that it seems to require effort just to breathe, and no matter what mysterious concoctions Lemay tries to pour down his throat, it is as the doctor himself explained - there are no medicines to make a man stronger, or none that they know of. Their only hope is to wait and see if by degrees he will recover his strength. Lemay is having him fed weak broth up to six times a day; occasionally, he dies not swallow it, but at other times he is almost lucid and responds ever so slightly to touch and food. "The food will build him back up," Aramis has assured his friends as convincingly as he can, because he who worries only suffers twice, and they deserve as little suffering as they can get. No, the burden will be his alone to bear, and if the boy dies, he will be at fault for making them believe, and not them for believing.

Porthos presses another skin into his hands. "Water," he declares proudly. Aramis takes a deep drink, chokes, and grimaces.

"Porthos, this is wine."

The larger man winces. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Aramis passes him back the skin and starts to laugh. It is an uneasy, nervous laughter, but Porthos, too, catches on, and even Athos flashes an increasingly rare smile.

A short cry from some distance away jolts them out of their trance and they move over to the edge of the bank, where they can see onto the road below. Aramis does not fancy their chances charging down it: the recent rains have made it steep and muddy, and it is doubtful that they will be able to get down it safely. Everything about this ridiculous plan is badly thought through and wrought with danger.

At last, their scout comes riding along the road. The three stumble down the slippery bank to greet him. "They're about an hour out," he says. "I didn't see how many, but three dozen at least. It could be twice that. Moving slowly. I didn't want to get in their way so I turned round as soon as I saw them. I don't think they saw me."

Athos nods. "Return to Paris. Inform Treville of your findings and station yourself or someone else halfway between here and there when you're done. Tell him to put the regiment on alert. If you see them coming, having defeated us, ride as hard as you possibly can back to Treville. He'll know what to do."

It is a lie and they all three know it, but the scout is only a cadet and he nods solemnly, honoured to be serving like a real musketeer. "Will I see any of the battle?" he asks.

Before Athos can give him an inevitably cutting response, Aramis claps the boy on the shoulder. "Your job is far more important," he says.

"Go!" says Athos.

They watch him leave and then scramble back up the slope. While Athos calmly explains the news to the rest of the group, Aramis pushes back the flutter of anxiety in his stomach and begins to clean his gun. The action is therapeutic, somewhat; it is so familiar now that he barely needs to concentrate, and the pistol moves obediently underneath his hands as it has done countless times before, and will not do again today. When he is done, he tucks it into his bag.

A hand clasps his shoulder. "Tell me what's really going on," says Morel softly, so that only he can hear. "I don't want to know the watered down version, Aramis."

The men have a right to know, even if it will he worse for them. Aramis speaks almost without hesitation, because if any man here deserves the whole truth, it is Clement Morel. "There are at least three dozen men. Maybe more. We have a mere score. They are trained, we know that - to what level, we do not know. The ones we fought were not unbeatable, but there were only a few of them; we could be outnumbered two to one, or worse. We have no guns, no horses ... they will be on horseback." Athos speaks now of pulling opponents from their horses to even out the battle. "Our only advantage is surprise, and that will last seconds."

To his credit, Morel does not flinch. "All for one, I suppose," he says. "Or one for all. It doesn't particularly make a difference." He is neither angry nor afraid; he walks away calmly, without a cold air or even an unpleasant one. His easy camaraderie is admired by most of the regiment.

Aramis has a terrible feeling that this is the last of Morel's easy camaraderie he will ever see.

* * *

When they first hear the riders, Athos clasps Aramis's hand, and then Porthos's. "Stay safe," he tells them.

"You too, brother," says Aramis, drawing his sword and swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. It is too similar to Savoy: the dusting of snow on the ground, the quiet, still atmosphere of calm before an imminent storm. The imminent slaughter of so many good men.

The riders round the bend and as one the musketeers charge down the steep slope. Porthos utters a tremendous, bellowing battlecry to his left; someone behind slips and smashes into Aramis's back; he stumbles, caught off balance, and falls the last few feet, just barely managing to stay upright. They plunge into the crowd of men. Briefly, he hears Athos's yell to surrender their weapons, but little attention is paid. Everyone is lost in battle.

He grabs a rider by the lapels and drags him from his horse, aiming a hard blow at his temple which misses as the man ducks. Swearing, he brings his knee up into the man's crotch and kicks his head as he sinks to the ground, groaning. Aramis spins, narrowly avoiding the frighteningly sharp blade of another rider, still seated, and crashes his sword to blow an incoming blow. Remembering at the last minute that he is not allowed to kill, and that to injure is not ideal due to their limited resources, he slams the hilt of his sword into another full-force head blow.

 _God have mercy upon their souls._

Blocking another blow sends waves of pain through his damaged shoulder. He lets out a cry of pain to relieve the tension - in the heat of the battle, no one will notice - and moves on. Most of their opponents are by now on the ground, by choice or not. By his estimations, there are close to four dozen, though it would appear that the vast majority of the musketeers are still alive and fighting. Panicked horses trot through the fray, knocking men aside. The icy air is thick with the smell of sweat and violence, and he can hear nothing but shouting.

Aramis parries another blow, and the pain in his shoulder sends a ripple of nausea through him. The sensation catches him unawares, and as he stumbles, a startled horse rears upwards, its flailing hoof catching him on the way down.

Dazed, he lies on his stomach watching the battle rage around him. He hears a yell from Porthos, of pain or rage or worse. The limp form of a blue uniformed musketeer lies ten feet away. Even with his vision swimming in and out of focus uncontrollably, he can tell that it is Morel from the eyes.

He remembers Morel's understanding of the loss of d'Artagnan, his soothing presence after the horrors of Savoy, his lightly serious, open friendliness when Aramis was recruited into the regiment. A trickle of blood runs from a still mouth which will never speak again.

Someone leaps over him. He lies still, sighs, and watches the dead leaves next to his mouth blow softly away as he breathes.

Aramis does not remember very much at all after that.


	13. and i crash and i break down

**A/N:** Apologies for the long wait, as always. I'll most likely take a break over Christmas, but hope to get this finished sometime in the new year.

Many thanks to criminally charmed, pallysdeeks, theredwagon, Tidia, arduna (x2), elbcw, FierGascon and Issai for the reviews.

Again, sorry for any weird spelling and grammar mistakes (particularly randomly capitalised words at the moment) - my iPad's autocorrect is dying a slow and painful death.

On that note, have a wonderful Christmas, if you celebrate that sort of thing, a fantastic new year, and a chapter you should probably not read if you want to stay cheerful.

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **13**

 **AND I CRASH AND I BREAK DOWN**

Other, better, soldiers have spoken to him of the loss of everything but their primal, animalistic instincts during the heat of the battle. For Athos, it has always been far easier to keep himself, to put his head over his heart and control his actions. It is for this reason that he has always met d'Artagnan's swordfighting technique with such frustration: everything he does must be drilled into him dozens of times over before it becomes natural enough to him that he can use it without thinking. D'Artagnan, of course, believes such grim determination and severity to be part of his personality - it is Aramis and Porthos who expressed some surprise at Athos's harsher turn, when the lad was first recruited. While he worries about them just as passionately, he has definite faith in their own abilities. The boy, skilful or not, reminds him too much of his late younger brother.

It is this, too, which forces him to choose the boy as his partner each mission, even when marksmanship or brute strength would be a better option. He cannot bear to see the boy hurt, not when Athos himself has a chance to protect him. As much as he trusts Aramis and Porthos, he knows that for them, rational thought outweighs brotherhood in the direst of situations, and were they, perhaps, to see d'Artagnan half dead with themselves under serious threat, they would - reasonably - escape without him. It is not not a flaw; rather, Athos (a generally logical man) is of the firm opinion that logic should come above all else.

He simply cannot force his mind to work that way.

Abandoning all hope of leaving their opponents unharmed, he charges a man still on horseback and slides his sword into the soft flesh of his thigh, driving him screaming onto the ground. Pain flashes across his back and, quick as a cat, he darts away, turning to see a bloodied blade swing towards his head. He block the blow easily once adrenaline sets in and slams the flat of his blade into the man's rib cage, eliciting a grunt and muttered obscenity. Porthos appears out of nowhere, brandishing a sizeable stick (an improvisation after the loss of his sword, it would seem) and slams it into the same spot, knocking the man flying. He grins at Athos and plunges back into the fray. It is doubtful that he will remember this later.

Caught in a temporary stillness, Athos observes the battle, counting men, judging their odds. Aramis is nowhere to be seen. Morel, as he looks, falls. He is a dozen yards away and Athos cannot see for men and horses, but it looked like a blunt force blow - nonfatal. The man is a survivor, besides.

Athos cries out his friend's name in the vain hope that someone will turn, but nobody does. He has eleven men still fighting, including himself, though he can see four, presumably injured, watching from the trees. Unable to fire their guns, they cannot do anything but sit and watch. Perhaps Aramis is among them. The numbers of men they are fighting have diminished. There are maybe twenty left. Some are dead. Some have run for their lives.

"Retreat!" comes the order, without warning. The men still seated begin to back away. Porthos lunges at the man who shouted and forces him from his horse, pinning his struggling arms.

"Let them run," Athos says, at the questioning looks towards him. "I will not attack a retreating back, orders or no orders."

He sits down heavily in the dirt and watches tiredly as his men begin to round up and bind their prisoners. Porthos has the now resigned leader stripped of weapons and armour, and bundles him towards the centre of the group, which is guarded by four men wiphile the rest gather their wits about them and return to themselves.

Athos spots a prone form on the ground, a few feet away. Suddenly exhausted beyond measure, he shifts himself over and solemnly turns the body to face him.

It is Aramis.

He stares up blearily with glassy, unfocused eyes. Blood edges down his forehead. Athos eases him upright and starts talking quietly in his ear, urging him to speak, to wake up just a little. Aramis stirs, groans, mutters something indistinguishable and shuts his eyes with a sigh. " _Aramis_ ," he says, tired to the bone and scarcely able to move. He has seen too much. Everything moves sluggishly slowly, grey, colourless ... there is no life in him, no desire to move, to find the dead and help the injured. Will Aramis survive the hour? Will any of them?

Porthos speeds over and skids to a halt on his knees, gently slapping Aramis's cheek. He has paled considerably. "Aramis, don't," he whispers, "not another one. I can't lose another one."

He pulls his friend from Athos's unresistant lap, shaking him gently, touching the cut across his head. Athos looks up at him through dark, clouded eyes, unable to speak. He longs for an end to this - not death, but some sort of relief, some sort of assurance that Aramis is not dying and d'Artagnan is not dead ... some sort of alternate reality wherein they are fixed inside a happy, peaceful brotherhood without arguments or distrust or danger. Instead, God has given him this - this aberration from day-to-day life, from nature's cycles and changes, from the constant cycle of time.

But the worst is not yet over.

Dubois, Morel's poor, innocent man, who so violently expelled the contents of his stomach upon seeing an unknown tortured corpse, utters a single cry of rage and despair and falls at the feet of another senseless body. As if he is no longer in possession of his own body, Athos finds himself rise, sticky with blood, and glide like a spectre to the young man. He knows to whom the body will belong even before he sees the face.

Morel, ever the brave soldier, looks unseeing into his face. A bloody wound has torn open his chest. "Quick and painless," murmurs another man, whose name Athos cannot quite recall, and leans forward to close Morel's eyes.

A good soldier and an even better man. There is no justice in his death, no sense to it: he deserved to live far more than Athos does, but it is Athos stood frozen above him.

Something breaks. Athos gives a shrieks of rage and hurls himself at the group of prisoners, only to meet a wall of flesh in Dubois. "We're not to hurt them," he says firmly, despite the tears streaming down his cheeks. "The King's orders."

Frustrated, Athos clambers up the dreadful slope and tears open Porthos's bag, ignoring the noise behind him ( _Athos, your back, Athos, you're bleeding, Athos_ ). He tugs out one of the skins containing wine and starts to drain it, trying to block out the world as best he can. ( _Athos. Athos!_ )

More. He blocks out the thoughts of d'Artagnan, deathly still in that terrible bed.

More. He blocks out the image of Aramis's bloody head.

More. He block out memories of Thomas, dead on the polished floor.

More. Gone is Morel, gone is Anne, gone is -

" _Athos!_ " Porthos takes hold of his arms, forcing them back, but he fights, trying to take as much wine as he can. He half chokes on it as it goes down, but he continues to swallow. Wine spills everywhere, coating his face, his hands, his doublet, a grotesque mirror of Morel's lifeless form. Some falls into his eyes and for a moment all he can see is red.

"Careful of his back!" someone orders, as the near empty skin is wrenched from his grasp. His stomach heaves.

"Please, Athos, no," cries Porthos in his ear as he struggles, until quite suddenly the world tilts and he falls sideways, retching wine or blood as he goes.

* * *

Golden evening sunlight sparkles through the trees. It dances in Porthos's eyes and makes him feel sick.

He has Athos and Aramis laid side by side, cloaks bundled underneath their heads for support. Aramis has a bandage wrapped tightly round his head. Athos is on his stomach, heavy doublet removed from his bleeding back. The wound is not deep but it is long, and infection at this point seems more than likely. Porthos takes another skin of brandy and sloshes it savagely against the cut. The lieutenant stirs but does not wake. Good riddance.

For Porthos is angry. Angry and _hurt_. Hurt that Athos cares so little for himself, and so little for his friend, that he would try like this to destroy himself in a frenzy of pain and grief. Hurt that the man would leave _him_ to suffer the consequences, to mop up the blood and wine, to bury their lost men, to grieve d'Artagnan, to see his murderers hang. Every minute they stay here he loses more and more hope that the boy lives. Every moment his fear grow slowly that Athos too has left him, and that Aramis, like it or not, is on his way as well.

It is too cold for it to be overly muddy, but the delicately frosted ground has a definite softness to it. Porthos sits down heavily on a blanket of dead leaves. Aramis, bless him, has not moved an inch since he was laid down here. It is a good thing that he was unconscious for the latter part of the battle, because they found him directly facing Morel's broken body. The whole ordeal will be terrifyingly similar to Savoy for him, and Porthos can only hope that the blow knocked him out instantly, and that he will take the news of each horror better than Athos did. He stands up again, after checking his friend's head for what feels like the hundredth time. The prisoners are a little way off, rounded up and individually bound. There are nine men in total, including the leader.

Porthos marches over. He has had enough.

"What's your name?" He barks. "Cooperate and the King will perhaps look upon you with mercy."

"Jean Fouquet," the man says stiffly, though he does not seem to care whether His Majesty will treat him with mercy or not. Porthos doesn't blame him. He's dead either way.

He grabs the man by the hair and forces his head up until their eyes meet. Fouquet gazes unflinchingly inside him. "Are you the bastard who tortured and nearly killed d'Artagnan?"

Fouquet blinks. "So he made it back alive? That's - well, that's remarkable. Not that I would expect anything less from - "

Sickened, Porthos slaps him across the face. Normally at this point, the cooler headed Athos would step in, but he is not here and neither are Aramis and d'Artagnan, and the rest of the men do not feel able to stop him. They have all experienced firsthand what he is like when he is angry. " _Are you the bastard who_ \- "

"The boy was never tortured," interrupts Fouquet, coolly turning his head back around to face Porthos. "We kept him, yes, but he was never tortured. I could not do that even if I wanted to. Loyal to a fault, he is - or was," he corrects, seeing Porthos's expression.

"Oh, poison, starvation, tying him up so that he _hung from his shoulders_ \- no, that's not torture at all."

"It was not I who poisoned him, and he refused to eat the food we provided. As for the method of restraint ... we find that it is the most _effective_ way of preventing escape, however cruel it may seem."

"He still escaped, though, didn't 'e?"

"A brief error which cost me several men. I should not have untied him."

Porthos laughs bitterly and then hits him again, sending him stumbling back into the rest of the group. "You'll pay for this," he hisses, and walks back to his friends.

There are three men also injured, who managed to get themselves behind cover, though two of them died while hiding in the trees. Each of them have a vacant horror in their eyes from the guilt and helplessness of fleeing and being forbidden to shoot. Porthos nods at them, a silent display of respect, and crouches back beside Aramis. He shakes him gently. "Aramis."

The marksman shifts slightly and frowns, but does not wake. It is a small sign for which Porthos thanks God. Perhaps it is better, anyway, that he does not open his eyes. If they can get him to a proper bed, his reaction will be less severe when he wakes. Porthos moves round to Athos, who appears to be waking up.

"P'th's," he slurs, from alcohol or something else. It is difficult to know.

"I'm here." This is the part he hates: the part where he pretends that everything is fine for him, that Athos need only worry about himself. That he has not affected Porthos, that there is no need to apologise or make amends. Why should there be? Why should this affect a Porthos so deeply when it is so clearly an internal problem?

Dubois's shout rings across the largely quiet company. "We need to move. I'll get the carts."

They brought two carts. One for the opposing men and one for their own. They load the dead in first, and then help the injured who cannot ride. It is a horrible thing to be forced to do, but better than leaving them in the cold until help arrives. "Are you alright?" he asks Athos, offering a hand. "Can you ride? Do you need ... ?"

"I'm fine," Athos says softly, and they both pretend he isn't lying.


	14. way down we go

**A/N:** Well, it looks like this could be the penultimate chapter. While I still have a fair amount more to write about, I don't want to draw out this story more than I need to. There will be more notes in the next chapter.

Thanks as always to my reviewers: pallysdeeks, criminally charmed, Tidia, elbcw, Helensg, Debbie, and Issai.

Until next time ~

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **14**

 **WAY DOWN WE GO**

It takes a surprising amount of force for d'Artagnan to finally open his eyes. For days, or so it feels, he has drifted on the brink of consciousness; occasionally, light shines through his eyelids, he feels cold droughts, or he hears voices. He finds it difficult to identify them, but the fixed picture of Athos's face just before he fell remains in his peaceful view and he rests happily in the knowledge that he is surrounded by brothers. How many days has it been since his escape? Surely enough. Enough that the musketeers must have fought off Fouquet and his men, defended the garrison from hostile forces. Everything seems numb and quiet and beautiful.

When his eyes at long last blink open, the sudden light blinds him for a second. He can hear the crackling of the fire and slowly rotates his head to look at it. His neck is stiff but not unbearably painful. Unaccustomed to the light, however gentle, he shuts his eyes again and blinks them slowly, testing his vision and awareness. Then, when he is satisfied, he turns again in the direction of the voices.

"What I am trying to _say_ , dear Porthos, is that if you were perhaps not so ... _boisterous_ in your victories, there is a small possibility that you might actually get away with your demonic cheating."

"Shut up, Aramis, the fight's half the fun! Besides, last time I took _your_ advice on card games, I ended up with a stab wound."

"A stab wound the size of my smallest toenail."

"But a stab wound nonetheless. If you'd have just let me - "

"Enough." A new voice. Quiet but clear.

"You've wounded me. And here I thought we were brothers."

An indignant sniff. All of a sudden the person in the bed next to him rolls over and d'Artagnan finds himself staring into a warm pair of eyes. _Aramis_. There is a bandage wrapped around his forehead, but he looks to be in reasonable health.

"Aramis," he croaks. "Did you - "

"D'Artagnan!"

There is a rush of movement from beyond his field of vision and then Athos and Porthos appear in front of him. "You're awake!"

"How do you feel?"

"Water?"

"No," he tries to say, "I - did you - Fouquet - "

A cup is pressed against his lips and his mouth fills with cool liquid. He swallows quickly as more and more comes. As the cup is withdrawn, Porthos says with some satisfaction, "Rotting in the Bastille. The rest of them were hanged but the King still thinks he has information."

"The Bastille?"

"Not enough security in the Chatelet, apparently." Porthos grimaces. "Better than he deserves, the bastard. But he won't be going anywhere."

Aramis has not emerged from his bed. D'Artagnan wonders if this has something to do with the bandage. "What happened to your head?"

"Don't ask," Aramis grins.

"I'm asking."

"I ... ah, I took a trip down a flight of stairs. Certainly not my fault."

Porthos laughs, a deep chuckle. "A women pushed him down when he tried to seduce her."

D'Artagnan snorts.

"That was _not_ what happened!" Aramis exclaims, scandalised. "Well, it was more complicated than that, anyhow."

"Enough, Aramis," Athos says gently. "He needs rest." He seems to be looking very intently into d'Artagnan's eyes. "How do you feel? You've had a low fever for a few days, aside from your obvious injuries."

Injuries ... d'Artagnan is suddenly very tired. He cannot quite remember any injuries. His whole body seems to ache: the pain is not focused on one area.

"I'm fine," he says absently, and falls asleep.

* * *

After a little deliberation they all agreed not to tell d'Artagnan in his weakened state about the battle. His road to recovery will be a long and likely difficult one, and it seems wise not to upset him so early on. Aramis is told that Porthos half carried Athos back to the garrison, having pulled him onto the back of his own horse ten minutes into the ride home. (This is not, apparently, how Athos himself remembers it.) He is told that they half fell into the infirmary to find d'Artagnan, and found him still unconscious with a hot, damp forehead and an only slightly furious Constance sat beside him.

Aramis was carried in and placed in the bed beside d'Artagnan to recover. He slept for several hours, was confused and upset when he awoke - of this period he remembers little - and slept fitfully for several more. Lemay told him to stay in bed for three days, an order which in normal circumstances he would completely ignore. However, d'Artagnan is here and Aramis does not wish to leave his side. He has a pounding headache, besides.

Just as his forced recovery period is drawing to a close, Aramis rolls over and looks into the Gascon's brown eyes for the first time in what feels like years. There is an unnerving silence in them, a hollow sort of pain that was never there before, an absence of the usual compassion the burns so brightly. He wonders if d'Artagnan will ever be the same. Not for the first time, he wonders what happened to the poor boy during his imprisonment. Fouquet, his captor, has been infuriatingly vague. Porthos keeps threatening to go in there with his knife and see what he can do, and Aramis has half a mind to allow him to.

Eventually, he has been forced to accept that he needs to give his injured shoulder to recover, and as soon as Treville heard about it he imposed upon Aramis a further three-week recovery period. It is excessive, for a flesh wound, but Aramis damaged it further by continuing to fight and train, and now it aches dully whenever he tries to use a sword.

"He didn't quite seem himself," remarks Porthos worriedly.

"Of course he doesn't," says Aramis. "He's been unconscious for days and as soon as he woke up you poured a pain draught down his throat."

"Aramis is right," says Athos, who has barely spoken more than a few words at a time since they returned from the battle. Porthos told Aramis while the lieutenant slept that Athos had suffered some sort of break when the enemy surrendered. He did not give many details, but said that the man was panicked and delirious after receiving a cut to the back, and that he recovered shortly after.

"Someone should tell Lemay. The lad's well out of the woods now."

"Constance will be horrified. The first time she leaves in three days and he wakes up while she's gone."

It feels like a blessing to all of them. Their fear for d'Artagnan has dulled with time; while it remains strong, it is a persistent nagging in their stomachs now, rather than the sharp pangs of dread they felt before. His awakening is surely a benevolent sign from the heavens, for it is nearly impossible now that he will succumb to his injuries and exhaustion. He takes more and more broth every day, and his breaths are much stronger. Lemay is delighted with his progress.

Aramis just wishes that there was something he could do.

* * *

She had taken to visiting the grave every day, just to be near him. Her husband would despair; she would go out to fetch some bread and return hours later, the bread soaked through with rain, her skirt filthy with mud from the fresh earth. She would, of course, have to wash her skirt, and they would have no bread with the somewhat watery soup she made, and she would look at d'Artagnan's empty space and the excess soup she made by accident and her eyes would fill with tears and she would have to excuse herself.

It was on one such occasion, when she was staring blankly at the simple wooden cross stuck into the wet mud, that Treville approached her from behind. "Constance," he said. "Did no one think to tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

He led her away, back into the city, towards the garrison ... into the infirmary, where a young man lay on the bed. A young man who was unmistakeable as her lodger and friend.

She has not left his side since - not until today, when Lemay, the surgeon, took her by the arm and forcibly pulled her from the warmth of the infirmary into the cold air outside.

The marketplace is as cheerful and bustling as ever. A child shoves her aside and she stumbles, watching and hiding a smile as the crook of a butcher's wife waddles, screeching, after. She has a little coin in her purse and passes it to the kindly baker in exchange for a sweet pastry. Constance has eaten only broth and a little bread for days, and the different flavours seem miraculous to her slightly starved senses.

It seems strange to her that for the rest of the world, life has carried on as though nothing at all has happened. The smiling baker has no idea at all that she has lost and gained everything in the space of a few days, that she is nursing the man she loves back to health -

 _The man she loves._

Because d'Artagnan is not just her lodger. Not any more. Now that she has lost him, and by some miracle he has returned to her ... they can never marry - she knows that for sure - but he is her best friend and if they cannot be lovers then they can, at least have that. They can share a bond that nothing can break, if only for a short while before he gets himself killed again. Of course, she detests his lack of regard for his own wellbeing, but such reckless daring is as large a part of his personality as his fierce loyalty and Constance cannot help but love him for it.

Before she knows it, she has taken herself home. The house looms above her threateningly, and she hesitates, but it has started to snow again and she needs to get in out of the cold. Taking a deep breath, she steps inside.

The house is - well, it's a mess. The floor is dirty and covered in water tramped in from outside. Random samples of fabric are strewn uselessly across shelves and even on the floor. When she moves into the kitchen, a plate lies shattered and unswept at her feet. Used dishes are piled up next to the window, and the table is covered in breadcrumbs. How long has she been gone? Three days? Three days, for such dreadful mess to accumulate? It must have been longer.

Constance hurries up to the bedroom. Jacques does not seem to be home, and, however cowardly she feels, she is grateful for it. There is a bag in the cupboard and she starts shoving clean dresses into it so that she can maintain some semblance of normality. Her current one is grubby and she changes out of it quickly, before scrambling into a tidier blue one. She bites her lip against the cold. As she moves to leave she catches a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror and recoils. That won't do.

Her hair has lost its curl and moved back into a flat, lifeless frizz. Her face is pale and grubby. With a sigh, she fetched a cold bucket of water and sets to work splashing her face and dampening her tangled hair. Gasping at the chill (a thin lop layer of the water was frozen), she drags a comb through her hair and plaits it back, away from her face, and dabs a little lavender water behind her ears. She doesn't want to spend too much time away from d'Artagnan, so it will have to do. Nodding at her more acceptable appearance in the mirror, Constance picks up her bag and, opening a window to try and reduce the stale smell of the house, makes her way back downstairs. Perhaps she will return tomorrow to tidy up properly. After all, she will have to face her husband sooner or later.

As fate would have it, the door swings open just as she is approaching it, and her disheveled husband strides through. Immediately, he grabs her wrist. She drops the bag.

"Constance!" he hisses. "Where in _God's name_ have you been?"

"D'Artagnan's alive," she says quickly. His breath smells too strongly of cheap wine.

"And what? You've moved out and taken him as your lover? Get inside!"

Constance struggles out of his grip. "I've been nursing him! The doctor has other patients and he needs constant help! Let me - let me go!"

She starts to leave through the still open door. Icy wind is blowing into the house and she shivers in spite of herself. "Constance, if you leave this house, I'll - "

"What will you do, Jacques? Beat me?"

"If you step out of that door, you won't step in again - "

"Jacques - "

"I mean it, Constance!"

He is weak and foolish with alcohol, but he'll keep his word. He is too proud a man not to. Very slowly, she comes back into the hallway.

"I thought so."

Constance picks up her dropped bag, kisses her husband on the cheek, and walks out the door.


	15. swimming to the surface

**A/N:** I am so sorry this chapter came out so late. Right around the time I started writing it, rehearsals for our school production started getting pretty intense and then we had a week of performances themselves, not to mention other commitments and the load of homework I've been trying to keep up with.

Anyway, here's the last chapter. It's much shorter than the others because I wanted to get it out fast and there didn't seem to be much else to say. I didn't want to overwrite it.

This is a lovely fandom to write for - it's so supportive and everyone's been so nice. Thank you to everyone who's been there for me along the way :)

Thanks, as always, to my reviewers: criminally charmed, pallysd'artagnan, elbcw, arduna, Tidia, and Debbie.

Without further ado, the last chapter ~

 **ON BROTHERHOOD**

 **15**

 **SWIMMING TO THE SURFACE**

"Are you _sure_?" Constance asks, twisting her hands together anxiously. "There's no shame in waiting a few more days. You don't want to hinder your recovery process, or - or something."

D'Artagnan smiles and touches her hand, stilling it. "If I don't start getting strength back into my legs, it'll be months before I can walk again. I won't overexert myself, I promise. I just want to get some fresh air."

She bites her lip.

"He's alright," says Aramis cheerfully. His head is no longer bandaged, but there is an angry-looking scar where he was hit.

D'Artagnan knows about the battle. It didn't take him long. After he woke up for the first time, several men came to visit him. One of them mentioned Morel, and Athos told him what had happened as soon as he asked. He wants to be angry - of course he does - but how can he be angry when at least one of them stays with him at all times, feigning illness or injury to excuse themselves from training? When he wakes up to see Athos staring at the door, a hand on his sword, just in case Fouquet escapes the Bastille and comes to exact his revenge? Or to find Aramis sleeping in the bed next to him, lest he develop another fever in his sleep and need a medic, or to be woken by Porthos's gentle hand sneaking around his wrist and staying there, just so he can feel the constant pulse?

Their simple patience exhausts him. He appreciates that they want to give him time, but the fact that they tiptoe around him hurts his chest more than any broken ribs. They are simply not the men he befriended.

Of course, he knows that things cannot just _go back to normal_ , no matter how much he prays for it. He has not left the bed in days. (Longer, probably. It is hard to keep track of time.) He needs to recover. He hasn't even told them what happened in the abandoned monastery. If all goes well, he will recount his story to Treville this afternoon, and Treville in turn will recount it to the King. For now, he will focus on getting himself out to the courtyard, and then, perhaps, up to the Captain, if he is strong enough.

"Here goes," says Porthos, helping him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed.

"Coat," says Constance, who worries he will be cold.

Athos helps d'Artagnan to pull on his doublet. Then he and Porthos take one arm each and pull him slowly, shakily, to his feet. His knees twitch and threaten to buckle there and then, but he remains upright and takes an uneasy step forward. It works. A determined grimace spreads across his features and he concentrates on putting one barely cooperative foot in front of the other, friends, beaming, at his side, until he has crossed the room and reached the door. Aramis opens it for them and they squeeze through, Athos and Porthos slightly behind. He is out of breath and the cold knocks most of the remaining air out of his lungs, but there is a bench that they're guiding him towards and outside it is _beautiful_.

D'Artagnan grins.

Some of the men pause their sparring to call out to him. He calls back a few friendly insults and then sits down, hard, on the bench. (It is much closer to the infirmary door than usual - a fact upon which he declines to comment.)

"How do you feel?" Aramis asks.

"Not bad," he says. He _is_ healing.

And all of a sudden, just as it does every time something good happens, the loss of Charles and Morel and all those other men hits him square in the chest and he nearly doubles over. "Time to go back inside," Constance says firmly, but he shakes his head and looks up at the Captain, who surveys them from his balcony.

"Help me up to Treville's office," he says.

"D'Artagnan - "

"I can do it. Please."

It hurts him to exploit them, but they are too willing to do just as he asks. He has no idea what happened while he was unconscious, or what they went through while he was imprisoned, and very little recollection of his time at that fateful inn, but it seems to have shaken them more than they care to admit.

More than he cares to find out.

Slowly, step by gentle step, he makes it up the narrow staircase to Treville's office. They tell him that Athos found him about halfway up when he made it to Paris. He remembers very little of this: just fleeting looks of disgust from passers-by as he lurched through the narrow streets, people parting to let him pass, and seeing a large man who he thought was Porthos (and was not).

"D'Artagnan," says Treville, once he reaches the top, and takes his arm from Porthos. Athos hesitates before letting go, but d'Artagnan gives him what he hopes is a reassuring nod. "Come inside. Have a seat."

D'Artagnan does so, with the Captain's assistance. "Thank you," he says, but is scarcely able to finish before the Captain envelops him in a fierce embrace. Startled, he pats him awkwardly on the the back, and then relaxes. That this is obscenely out of character for Treville is something that neither of them choose to mention. After several moments, they both step back. He finds himself being looked up and down and, somewhat self conscious, he wraps his arms around his own battered midsection. This is becoming a fairly natural position for him now.

"I'm glad you're alive, d'Artagnan," Treville says quietly.

"As am I, Captain," he replies, before his shaky legs really do start to give way and he sits down heavily on a hard wooden chair designed to make its owner uncomfortable.

They make quiet conversation for a short while, and then Treville says, "You know I need your full report."

They both sigh. "I know."

"And you know I need it now."

"Yes."

Treville sits behind his desk and starts to arrange his papers. "Whenever you're ready, d'Artagnan."

* * *

The most painful part of being Captain is by far the weight of all the secrets he has to bear. The horrors his men tell him in their reports, the excruciating detail they are forced to go into, the hollowness that appears behind their eyes ... there are things that change people, and Treville has witnessed secondhand via seemingly infinite accounts almost all of them. He hears the things that nobody else hears - things that nobody else wants to hear; things that nobody wants to have to tell.

D'Artagnan's story is much the same as the others. It is a story of circumstances which perhaps no one else could survive. Circumstances which no one else _did_ survive.

He has heard so many of these stories over the years that they all merge in to one formless horror, but that does not make each individual one any less painful. He keeps his expression as reserved as he can while the lad speaks. It doesn't do to show too much emotion.

The problem is, d'Artagnan is too young, too _innocent_. His repeated job of recording failed missions can almost be bearable when the men are weathered, seasoned musketeers, but this cadet - this cadet who should not really be allowed away on missions until his commission is earned, but seems to be anyway under Athos's watchful eye - he is too ... _raw_ to have faced such hardships.

Treville, as Captain, bears witness to many small details of soldiery. One such detail is that each man experiences one thing which changes him for the rest of his life. For some, it may be their first kill, or their first battle. For others, it is more complicated - an experience of torture, a difficult mission. Almost all of his men have experienced such a thing, have the hardened expression, the detached, more clinical attitude to their jobs that signifies it. Before today, Treville was certain that Fouquet was d'Artagnan's turning point.

Now, looking at the boy's easy grin as Athos lowers him back onto a bench and the girl Constance drapes a blanket over his relaxed shoulders, looking at the way he acts as if nothing else matters ... now, he is not so sure.

Fouquet, after some of the Cardinal's more ... _advanced_ interrogation techniques, admitted to plotting against the King. His plan was to neutralise the musketeer threat ( _the Red Guard are bloody useless, after all_ ) so that the crown was left defenceless. His plan after this is generally unclear, as the interrogator stopped as soon as he had enough of a confession to have the man hanged. He did, however, freely admit to having worked with d'Artagnan's father in the past, in protest against the taxes that were proving difficult to bear, though he emphasised that Alexandre would play no part in any illegal activities (a fact Treville is endlessly grateful to hear). He also swore that he never tortured D'Artagnan and never intended to hurt Alexandre's son. Porthos, upon hearing this, had to be restrained for several minutes from charging into the Bastille and beating the man senseless.

Fouquet will be hanged tomorrow.

Gazing out across the courtyard, at the men training, the men who should be training, and the four inseparable men on the benches, Treville feels a wave of peace wash over him. These are his warriors, his bravehearted men who want nothing more than to protect their king and their country.

And observing the friendly atmosphere, their easy nonchalance, their protectiveness over their comrades ... Treville cannot help but think that above all else, _this_ is brotherhood.

 _Fin._


End file.
